


Attraction

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2019-10-31 13:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17849981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: I found this AU fic languishing on my computer and thought I'd dust it off, spruce it up a bit, and share it. I began it a while ago, when I wrote those other fics (Earth, Sea & Sky, and Oxford) about a younger Ruth and Harry. As always, Kudos owns what's theirs and the rest is my own work. Positive, constructive reviews are always welcome and much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.





	1. Chapter 1

_1 st September 1991, 7 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

The man behind the desk is tall and lean, with short, dark, curly hair and piercing, blue eyes that give the impression that he can see straight through you into the back of your mind. In fact, over the years he's perfected his stare to such a degree that it has become legendary in MI-5. It has served him well both in suspect interrogation and in wheedling out information from assets and colleagues alike. There are few who can withstand 'The Stare' and Malcolm isn't one of them. Unfortunately for him, he's standing right in front of him – Russell Coolidge, the Head of Counter-Terrorism at MI-5. Coolidge is sitting behind his desk, staring at Malcolm, who squirms uncomfortably under his gaze.

“You're telling me,” Coolidge demands in a deceptively calm and soft voice, “that Pearce hasn't checked in at his usual time and we have lost track of _all_ the members of Bond's group?”

“Yes, Sir,” Malcolm replies reluctantly, desperately trying not to flinch.

“That is unacceptable, Jones. Do you hear me? Un-a-ccept-a-ble!” His voice rises a little, but he's not yelling yet as he glares at Malcolm. “And since they have escaped our surveillance and Pearce has disappeared simultaneously, we must assume that he’s been compromised and they're aware that we're onto them,” he continues, then abruptly stands, taking long, swift strides round his desk and towards the door of his office. At the door, he spins round to face Malcolm again and barks, “Find them, Jones. I don't care what it takes. Just find them. _Now!_ I have to brief the Home Secretary.” And, with that, he sweeps through the Grid and exits through the pods without a backward glance.

Malcolm sighs in relief and rushes back to the safety of his computer. He doesn't need his boss to tell him how important it is to find these madmen _and_ Harry, of course, quickly. He fervently hopes that his friend is alright.


	2. Chapter 2

_10 pm_

_Small Village in Shropshire_

 

Ruth puts her boots on and slides her rucksack over her shoulder and her telescope across her chest before opening the door to the bungalow she's borrowed from a friend for a couple of weeks and slipping out into the night. She lifts her eyes to the heavens for a moment, smiling at the gorgeous sight of the stars shining above and feeling grateful for the clear sky tonight before she returns her gaze to the road, switching on her torch as she begins to make her way up the lane that passes in front of her bungalow. It's the last one on this road, and as she walks away from the village, she finds herself in a living tunnel made by the trees on either side. During the daytime, it's beautiful, but right now, she finds it a little spooky. The starlight filters through the branches here and there casting strange shadows across her path as she makes her way uphill on the narrow country lane, her breathing loud in the stillness, the occasional hoot of an owl reassuring her that she's not alone. At the crest of the hill, she turns left, climbing over a stile and cutting across a field, grateful to be out in the open again where she can see more clearly. She's aiming for the derelict barn she'd spotted earlier today where she hopes to find some shelter from the light breeze and study the stars. It's the constellations that have sparked her interest, not because she’s a particularly keen astronomer, but because she loves the legends and myths associated with each one. Ruth is very thorough when it comes to research, and she wouldn't dream of reading about the legends without actually looking at the constellations themselves – hence this trip and her foray into the field tonight.

Her rucksack is heavy with the books, charts, light blanket, and Thermos of tea she's carrying. She crosses two fields and approaches the derelict building when she hears a vehicle passing on the road to her right and is surprised, and rather alarmed, when she sees it turn into the farmyard. She quickly switches off her torch and veers off her intended course, making for a clump of bushes up against the low, stone wall to her right, where she crouches down out of sight. She's a little wary of finding herself all alone out in the middle of nowhere with strangers, so she intends to hide until she can assess if these people pose a threat. The van drives into the middle of the field, turns to the left and stops.

Though the moon is not out yet, the sky is clear and Ruth can see the passenger's side of the van and its back in the starlight. A broad shouldered man of average height gets out of the passenger seat and walks to the back of the van where he's joined by the driver who is tall and slim. She can't make out much detail about them in this light, but she notices that the broad bloke is wearing a cap and is, rather alarmingly, carrying a gun, which makes her feel rather grateful that she'd thought to duck out of sight so quickly. The thin man opens the back of the van and pulls out a third man whom he throws unceremoniously onto the ground, causing him to grunt in pain when he lands, his face hitting the hard earth despite his best efforts to avoid the collision. His hands are tied behind his back, she realises with alarm as the thin man pulls him roughly to his knees.

“Take the van out of here and wait for me at the gate,” the burly man orders his companion, “while I deal with this piece of shite.”

The thin man wordlessly obeys and a few moments later the van has disappeared back where it came from, while the man with the hat turns to his prisoner.

“Who do you work for?” he demands, and when the other man remains silent, he hits him hard in the face with the butt of his gun making the prisoner cry out in pain. “Who do you work for?” he repeats. “Are you Five?”

The prisoner spits at the man's shoes and gets rewarded for his insolence with another couple of blows to the face. Then the man in the hat primes his weapon and places its muzzle against the other man's forehead, and Ruth finds that she cannot watch any longer without doing _something_. Despite the fear that's coursing through her, turning her knees to jelly, she forces herself to step away from her hiding place and walk towards the men.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demands with more conviction than she feels and in a surprisingly steady voice.

The man holding the gun turns towards her in surprise, and that split second when his attention is diverted is all the other man needs. He falls to the side and kicks the other man's legs from under him before tucking his knees up and pulling his bound wrists forward, under his feet, and launching himself at him, wrestling with him for possession of the gun. Ruth is rooted to the spot in astonishment at the swiftness of the bound man's moves, but the gun shot that shatters the stillness of the night shocks her out of her stupor.

“Get down,” the bound man demands, though she's already moving away, back to her hiding place in the hedge.

Her chest is heaving and she sinks down onto the ground, her limbs trembling, unable to support her weight, her mind reeling. She hears another gun shot and covers her head with her arms, but then suddenly the scuffling stops and all is eerily still. She lowers her arms cautiously, listening intently as her heart hammers loudly in her chest, keeping completely still as a fierce battle between her fear and her curiosity rages inside her. What seems like hours later, though in reality it's probably less than a minute, her curiosity wins out, and she crawls over to the edge of the hedge and peaks round it. The two men are lying on the ground, both of them still and silent. She's just wondering if she dare go over to them and whether her shaky legs would even support her weight if she tried to, when she hears the tall thin man approaching, cautiously calling out to his friend. There's no answer, and a moment later, he comes into view, walking carefully towards the two fallen men. He pauses as soon as he spots them, about ten yards from where they're lying, and raises his weapon.

Her brain analyses the situation in a split second. The man in the hat is clearly either unconscious or dead, or else he would have got up by now. The other man is unconscious, dead or, quite possibly, playing dead, but the thin man isn't going to take any chances and is about to shoot him again, just to make sure. The moment she reaches this conclusion, she jumps up from her hiding place and says, “Excuse me, are you from around here? Only, I seem to be a bit lost.”

The man turns towards her in surprise, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the bound man lift a gun and fire. The tall thin man crumbles to the ground as the other man slumps back with a soft groan. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit_ , she thinks in a panic, realising that she's just helped a man she doesn't know _kill_ two people. What if they were actually the good guys and she's just helped a madman? She'd assumed the bound man was the one in trouble – after all the other two had bound him up and had been about to execute him – but what if it's the other way round? She dithers for several moments, trying to decide what to do, when a groan of pain coming from the bound man snaps her out of her indecision and she slowly approaches him, feeling certain that he's injured and in need of help. Plus, she reminds herself sternly, he'd been the only one who'd shown any concern for her, shouting at her to get down when the gun had gone off. _He must be the good guy_ , she tells herself firmly as she walks towards him, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

As she passes by the man in the hat, she notices that his eyes are open. Not unconscious then, she thinks and takes another deep steadying breath as panic threatens to overtake her before she turns her attention on the bound man. He has his eyes closed, but they snap open again as she takes another step towards him and he raises the gun, pointing it straight at her. She's surprised and suddenly terrified, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I mean you no harm,” she says in a shaking voice.

The man immediately lowers the gun to the ground beside him and grimaces with pain, confirming her belief in him. Determinedly she pushes away her fear and crouches down beside him, running her eyes over him to assess the damage. It's hard to make out detail in the semi-darkness but he looks older than her, probably in his thirties. He's strong and well built with very short hair, and he's wearing a dark coloured cotton shirt that's open at the neck and dark jeans, his wrists bound together with thick rope that's probably extremely uncomfortable, if not painful.

“I'm going to cut through the rope round your wrists,” she says gently and fishes out her pen knife from her pocket.

She removes her leather gloves, shoving them into her back pocket, and sliding the blade carefully between his wrists, she begins to saw through the rope. It takes her several seconds to cut all the way through, and she can feel his eyes on her the entire time as she works to cut him free. Finally the rope gives way, and she closes her knife as he rubs his wrists in relief.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Who are you?”

“Your guardian angel, it would seem,” she murmurs and then asks. “Are you badly hurt?”

“My thigh,” he answers and gingerly sits up, reaching forward with his hands to feel his leg. “I need to tie something round the wound to stop the bleeding,” he adds.

“Here,” she says, “take my scarf,” and she proceeds to unwrap it from around her neck.

“Thank you,” he replies.

He takes it from her and as his fingers slide over the fine silk, he's genuinely surprised at her willingness to part with it as it will surely be ruined. He murmurs his thanks again and ties it securely around his injury, clenching his teeth against the pain.

“Who were these men?” she asks. “Why did they want to kill you? Are there more of them?”

He nods and says, “We need to get out of here.”

“Okay,” she replies. “Can you walk?”

He tries to stand but moans loudly and slumps back down, clutching his leg.

“I can go for help,” she offers, seeing that he won't be able to move anywhere and she knows she's not strong enough to lift him.

“No!” he exclaims, startling her into silence.

“You need a hospital,” she insists.

He shakes his head and says emphatically, “No. It's just a flesh wound. I'll be fine. I just need to bandage it up. I can't go to hospital. They'll find me. Do you live near here?”

She hesitates and then nods.

“Take me there,” he murmurs. “I'll be able to call for help from there.”

“Hang on a second,” she objects. “I don't know anything about you. Who were these men? Why were they trying to kill you?”

“I'm a journalist,” he says, his voice weakening. “I was undercover in their organization – human trafficking. They're well connected.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, and she can see that he's finding it hard to speak. The rest of her questions will have to wait, she realises, making a quick decision to trust him and turning her mind over to the problem of how to get him home.

“Wait here,” she says, an idea striking her, and getting up, she walks towards the tall, thin man who's lying in the grass a few yards away. When she reaches him, she notices that his face is a mass of blood and quickly averts her eyes. Shaking slightly, she pats down his pockets, looking for his keys, when it suddenly occurs to her that she should put her gloves back on so she doesn’t leave any fingerprints. She pauses to pull them on, thinking that it's a good thing she likes to read murder mysteries before she continues with her task, locating the bunch of keys she's been looking for and pulling them out. She walks to the van and starts up the engine, diving it back through the field with the lights off. She parks it as close to the man as she dares in the dark, and getting out of the driver's seat, she approaches him once more.

“I'll help you in,” she says.

“In the back,” he replies. “It'll look less suspicious with the blood.”

She opens the back doors of the van and moves to stand next to him. He places his good foot on the ground as she wraps her left arm round him under his shoulders, and he drapes his right arm round hers.

“On three,” she says. “One, two, three.”

She heaves him up, and he manages to get upright, sucking in a sharp breath as he does so. Then with her help, he hobbles to the back of the van and gets in.

“Get the gun,” he gasps, the pain overpowering. She nods and shuts the doors, remembering her rucksack and telescope too. She runs over to get them and also picks up the gun and an extra clip she finds in the dead man's pocket. Then shoving both in her rucksack, she jumps in the driver's seat.

“You okay?” she asks worriedly, concerned that he's lost too much blood already.

He grunts in reply and murmurs, “Drive with the lights and engine off where you can.”

“Okay,” she answers and sets off.

It's lucky that she's staying at the end of the row of houses, she thinks as she turns the engine off when she reaches the crest of the hill and lets the van glide slowly down, stopping outside her door. Quickly she gets out and goes round to the back, opening the doors to find the man unconscious. “Shit,” she says under her breath and almost decides to risk his wrath and take him to the hospital, but when she shakes him gently, he comes round quickly.

“We're here,” she whispers. He grunts and pushes himself to a sitting position with some difficulty as she adds, “I'll be right back,” and dashes to the front door.

She unlocks it, and leaving it open, she walks through to the back of the house and the only bedroom. Here she dumps her rucksack and telescope in the corner, then pulls back the covers from the bed, and finding a couple of old towels in the airing cupboard, she spreads them out on top of the sheet. Then she returns to her charge, and with his help, she manages to get him to the bed where he lies down exhausted from the effort. She removes his shoes and covers him with an old blanket.

“I'll just put the kettle on and then I'll take a look at your wounds,” she says.

“No,” he shakes his head. “First you need to take the van back before they find it here.”

“You've already lost too much blood,” she objects. “I should bandage that up first.”

“No,” he insists. “I'll be fine until you return. It's not bleeding much any more.”

She looks doubtful, but she can see that he's not going to let her have her own way unless he loses consciousness again, and in the mean time, every minute wasted arguing is leading to more blood-loss. So she gives up and says, “Fine. I won't be long.”

He nods and closes his eyes as she leaves him to complete her task. She returns the van and the keys before making her way swiftly over the fields and down the lane to the bungalow, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she hurries along. She's terrified as she does these things, but the thought of the man in her bed dying from his injuries keeps her focused on her task.

She enters the bungalow and locks and bolts the door. Then she draws the heavy curtains across the windows in the sitting room to block out the lights in the house, puts the kettle on, and then returns to the man. She draws the curtains and switches on the bedside lamp. He looks pale, but when she puts her hand on his forehead he feels too warm.

“Shit,” she mutters again.

She locates her first aid kit, a bowl, clean wash cloths and plastic bags, which she carries into her bedroom. She also gets a bottle of Arnica homoeopathic remedy out of her first aid kit, and turning his head to the side and opening his mouth, she pours one dropper-full into it for the shock. Then she goes back to the kitchen for the water. She removes the blanket and unties the scarf, placing it sadly in one of the bags – it's completely ruined. Then she unbuttons his jeans and tries to yank them off. When she finds she can't manage, she tries to rouse him to get him to help, and when that fails, she gets a pair of scissors, and working up from the leg, cuts through the material with some effort and peels it away from his wound. She bathes it with the warm water and disinfectant and is relieved to see that there is a clear exit wound on the back of his thigh. When she's satisfied that it's clean, she ties a bandage round it, putting as much pressure on it as she dares, not wanting to cut off his circulation, feeling suddenly very grateful for the first aid course she'd taken in the spring.

When his leg is taken care of, she removes the rest of his clothing, apart from his underwear, cutting away the rest of his jeans and gently rolling him over to remove his shirt, the bits of material and old towels. There is a small wound on his right shoulder where a bullet nicked it, some abrasions on his forearms and the skin around his wrists is raw. She cleans and dresses these wounds too and then proceeds to clean his face from the dried blood. He has a cut on his lip and a gash on his left cheek where the butt of the gun hit him, and his cheekbone and left eye are starting to bruise.

“Stupid man,” she mutters under her breath as she finishes dressing his wounds. Then grabbing the old blanket and a couple of cushions, she places them under his leg to keep it in an elevated position. She stands and stretches her back muscles before reaching into her first aid kit and getting out a tube of Arnica cream to gently spread over his bruises. She does the same with his scrapes and shallow cuts using a tube of Calendula cream, just as her father used to do when she was little. When she's finished, she puts the creams back in her first aid kit, and standing up, she looks down on him. Her gaze travels over him appreciatively as she realises that he's got a good looking body – very fit, strong, and well proportioned. In fact he's probably got the best male body she's ever seen, including an impressive bulge in his trunks – not that she's seen that many. His chest, however, is littered with old scars and it makes her wonder who he is. Special forces? MI-5? Somehow she doesn't quite buy his undercover journalist story. Realising that she's staring at his practically naked form, she feels suddenly embarrassed and ashamed of herself for taking advantage of him like this. After all, if their roles had been reversed, she wouldn't appreciate a total stranger ogling her body. She sighs and quickly covers him with the duvet.

She cleans up and then has a shower. When she comes out all ready for bed, she checks on her charge who's temperature is rather high for her liking, so she bathes his forehead with cool water and vinegar for a few minutes, wondering how long she dares risk keeping him here. He had been adamant that hospital wasn't an option, but she's not at all confident of her skills as a healer and is really worried he needs antibiotics or a blood transfusion and will die on her in the night. If he doesn't improve in the next few hours, she decides, she'll call an ambulance.

“Who are you?” she asks him, but of course, she gets no answer.

Unfortunately the only bed in the house is now occupied. She contemplates the sofa in the sitting room, but dismisses it quickly as being far too uncomfortable and too far from her charge. She doesn't want to leave him alone until his fever brakes, so she climbs into bed beside him.

“Don't try anything, will you?” she warns as she turns on her side to face him.


	3. Chapter 3

_2 nd September 1991, 12 am_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

“Got you!” Malcolm exclaims with elated satisfaction. He grabs the phone on his desk and quickly dials a number.

“Yes,” Mark murmurs groggily, answering the phone on the second ring as he glances at the clock by his bedside.

“I've found one of them.”

“Where?” he asks, swinging his legs out of bed, trying hard not to disturb his wife though, after six years of marriage, she knows to sleep with earplugs if she wants a decent night’s sleep when there’s an active operation on. 

“In Stoke-on-Trent, five hours ago. He used an ATM. It was Jenkins. His aunt lives just outside Stoke. I'm sending you the address now.”

“Good work, Malcolm. Get some rest.”

“Not until we get Harry back,” Malcolm replies stubbornly, ends the call, and returns to his computer.

Mark shakes his head, and quickly pulling on some clothes, he heads downstairs and into the kitchen, using the phone there to ring Annie Spencer, a junior officer he’s mentoring right now, to let her know of the new developments. Twenty minutes later he pulls up outside her flat, where he picks her up and they head for the M40.

 

 

_4 am_

_Village outside Stoke-on-Trent_

 

“That's it,” Mark murmurs as they pass the house, then he pulls up a few houses down and parks the car.

“What do we do now?” Annie whispers.

“We'll set up surveillance on the house and the aunt.”

“But what if they're not here?”

“We have no other leads,” Mark murmurs, “so, until we find one of them or find Harry, we might as well be sitting here as anywhere else.”

“Right,” she says and climbs onto the back seat of the car from where she can watch the house more easily and without being seen. “I'll take first watch. I got more sleep than you.”

Mark nods, adjusts his seat, and closes his eyes.

 

 

_6 am _

_Small Village in Shropshire_

 

Despite her best intentions, she’d fallen asleep and only woken up an hour ago. Luckily for everyone, her unknown guest had survived the night, though his skin had seemed warmer than earlier, warm enough to cause concern and warrant measuring his temperature. She’d got up and quickly dressed in the bathroom before heading over to her first aid kit, looking for the thermometer. Soon she’d pulled back the covers, checked neither of his wounds had bled through their bandages in the night, covered him once more, and had slipped the thermometer under his arm, holding it in place with her cool palm pressed against his bicep. He’s got rather large, strong muscles, she hadn’t failed to notice and deliciously warm, smooth skin, and she’d been annoyed to discover that she isn’t unaffected by it – far from it, in fact. 

His temperature had indeed been a lot higher than she’d like it to be – 39.3oC to be precise. So she’d gone about doing her best to get some fluids into him, putting away the thermometer and getting a glass of water and spoon from the kitchen, painstakingly allowing a few drops at a time to drip through his lips, wiping away any that dribbled down the side of his face. She wishes she had more Homoeopathic Remedies with her, but she's only brought those in her first aid kit. She’d given him Belladonna in the hope that it'll bring down his temperature, but it hasn’t worked.

Still, she reasons, at least it means that his immune system's putting up a good fight. She sponges his forehead and makes sure that he's covered well. Hopefully, the fever will break soon. She decides she'll only give it another hour before calling an ambulance.

She studies his face trying to discern some information about him. He has a good nose and his ears are a nice shape, even if they do stick out a bit. His lips are full and almost make him look like he's pouting all the time, and despite his receding hairline, he’s got soft hair, blonde and curly, though it’s cut rather short at the moment. She doesn't think him handsome in the conventional sense, though it would be hard to think anyone with a black eye and bruising all over one side of his face handsome. She's not sure what it is, but something about him has sparked an interest in her. This surprises her, given the circumstances under which they'd met. She's never really gone in for the 'bad boy' types, and this man she's certain falls into that category – the kind that will break your heart without a second thought and up and leave you in tears.

She chastises herself for being so mean-spirited. Perhaps he’s a nice bloke despite his propensity to get into trouble. Maybe he’s married with a couple of children, who are, even now, waiting for their Daddy to come home. She wonders if someone missed him last night, if they’ve stayed up all night worrying, have rung all their friends and the police when they couldn’t find him, and suddenly he doesn’t seem so dangerous any more, so reckless. Suddenly he seems human, vulnerable, and remarkably attractive. 

She smiles ruefully and shakes her head at herself. This is definitely not helping, so she sets aside the washcloth for the moment and gets up, intent on making herself a nice cup of tea.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_1 pm_

_Village outside Sto ke-on-Trent_

 

“I see him,” Annie says. “I see Jenkins.”

She's at the top of the bell tower of the parish church with her binoculars trained on the house.

“Good,” Mark responds over the walkie-talkie.

“He's definitely staying at his aunt's house,” Anne confirms. “He's just gone into the village shop.”

A few minutes later Jenkins exits the shop, glancing around to make sure he isn't being followed, unaware that he's being watched from up high. Earlier he'd thought that he'd spotted a suspicious looking car parked a few houses down the street, but he'd been mistaken. He hasn't seen the car since.

“He's walking back to the house,” Annie says. “Wait. His Aunt's coming down the road to meet him.” She studies him carefully and then continues, “It looks like he’s received news. I think he's on the move. Stand by Beta One.”

“Beta One ready,” Mark responds.

“Yes,” Annie replies. “He's moving faster now. He's reached the cottage and is handing the food to his aunt. He's heading for his car. It's the Ford.”

“Good,” Mark replies. “Tell me which direction he's moving in and get out of there.”

“He's heading west,” Annie responds, putting away her binoculars and rapidly descending the tower.

 

 

_3 pm_

_Somewhere in Staffordshire_

 

“We've got them all,” Mark says into the receiver with a triumph grin. “This must be their new meeting place.”

“Good work, Adams,” Coolidge smiles. “Any sign of Harry?”

It’s unusual for Coolidge to use anyone’s first name.

“No,” Mark responds with a heavy heart.

“Right. Set up surveillance then. Is there a chance of getting an audio feed in there?”

“No, Sir,” Mark replies. “The house is isolated and they have people watching all the time. They’ve learnt their lesson. My guess is they’ve picked this location deliberately. Any new people will stand out like a sore thumb. We’re going to have to be very careful not to spook them.”

“Right. I’ll talk to Casters about commandeering some agents from G Section, give us a broader base to work from.”

“I can put trackers on the other vehicles once it's dark,” Mark suggests, “and I’m sure Malcolm can sort something out and get us some remote surveillance set up. I’ve sent Arnold to do his trick with the milkman. He’s not a local chap, so it should be a cinch to get him a new assistant.”

“Good. Do that, sit tight, and whatever you do, _don't_ lose them again.”

 

 

_4 pm _

_Small Village in Shropshire_

 

_George? No. He doesn’t look like a George. Tom perhaps. No... Maybe Henry. He could be a Henry. Or an Arthur. Or Richard... Royal names. Interesting._

She started this game a few hours ago, trying to guess his name to pass the time, in between cooking some chicken soup for them, studying the constellations and myths, and reading any one of a number of books she’s in the middle of. What she really wants to do is go for a walk, but she’s a little worried about leaving him alone here, whether because of concern for his safety or her own, she’s not entirely sure. Now that he’s out of danger, she’s beginning to question the wisdom of allowing him into her personal space – he could be absolutely anybody. At least, with the hole in his leg, he doesn’t really pose an immediate threat to her, which is a relief. She just needs to be on her guard and get him out of here and her life as soon as possible.

His fever had finally broken practically the moment she'd picked up the phone, ready to dial 999. The longer she'd left it to ring, the harder it had seemed. How was she supposed to explain his condition and her failure to call for help earlier? The fact that he had told her not to had seemed like such a flimsy excuse to her, especially if he failed to survive and there was no one to corroborate her story. “I’ll give it ten more minutes,” she’d kept telling herself, only to extend the deadline by another ten whenever it arrived, until the realisation that she was fucked either way if he died in the end, whether here or on the way to the hospital, had prompted her to stop procrastinating and bite the bullet. Miraculously, however, he had recovered just in the nick of time and she'd been spared the necessity of explaining her actions, for which she's supremely grateful.

He's sleeping peacefully now, has been asleep for most of the day, in fact, giving her ample time to think through her actions and analyse the events of the last twenty-four hours. The half hour or so before his fever had broken had been particularly hard on both of them. It had been steadily climbing, reaching an alarming 42.1oC at its height and causing him to become delirious, thrashing about in bed and uttering such anguished cries that had made shivers run down her spine and the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, but despite her discomfort, she'd stayed with him throughout, speaking words of comfort in a low, soothing voice, continuing to bathe his brow and rub his arm gently, desperate to calm him, praying he pulls through as the fear that he will die on her intensified, terrified that the blame would fall squarely on her shoulders. She’d actually been reaching for the telephone when he’d suddenly moaned, arching his back, and his entire body had broken out in a sweat that had soaked the sheets in seconds, his temperature dropping rapidly. She’d actually sent up a prayer of thanks and breathed a sigh of relief, drying him with a towel as best she could and rearranging the covers for him, though she hadn’t been able to move him enough to change the sheets. As she watches him sleep peacefully now, she wonders what kind of a life he's lead to suffer such nightmares.


	5. Chapter 5

_6 pm_

_Small Village in Shropshire_

 

It's late in the afternoon when he comes round and finds himself in an unfamiliar room. Adrenaline surges though him and he surreptitiously looks around, instantly alert to any sources of danger. He sees her sitting by the window reading a book, the sun falling over her shoulder onto the side of her face, and it all comes flooding back – this is his guardian angel. _She's as beautiful as an angel_ , he can't help thinking and tries to roll over to face her, a groan of pain escaping him and alerting her of his return of consciousness. Immediately she's on her feet and at his side, her cool hand touching his forehead as she smiles.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she says quietly. “You had me really worried for a while there. How are you feeling?”

“Like I've been hit by a bus,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly from lack of use.

She smiles. “You look it too.”

“Thanks a lot. I thought nurses were meant to make the patient feel better,” he jokes.

“Well, _I_ didn't sign up to _be_ a nurse,” she answers haughtily. “All I wanted to do was have a well deserved break and do a little star gazing.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but when he lifts his eyes to hers, he sees the merriment in them and realises she's teasing. And what a pair of eyes they are – a sparkling, blue-grey, beautiful like a stormy sea. His breath catches and she turns away with a blush, embarrassed by the admiration that's clearly visible in his gaze.

“Would you like something to eat?” she asks hurriedly. “I've made some chicken soup.”

“Thank you,” he replies quietly. “That would be grand.”

She leaves the room and he watches her go, wondering who she is and thinking about her beautiful face until exhaustion overtakes him and his eyes close once more.

 

 

_9 pm_

 

When he wakes again, it's almost dark. She's sitting in her chair, but she's moved it closer to him, away from the window. Her eyes are closed and she's leaning back, her hands clasped together in her lap. She's young – probably in her early twenties. Her shoulder-length, chestnut hair frames her round face, her lips are beautifully formed, and he can't help imagining what they would feel like against his. His eyes travel down her body as he takes in the light blue shirt that tastefully displays the curve of her breasts and the long skirt that reaches to her ankles. He wonders again who she is. It's certain that he owes her his life, and he cannot help but be impressed by the way she'd handled the whole situation. She'd had the guts to stand up to armed men and the presence of mind to use the van to get him out of there. Then she'd taken care of him, dressing his wounds and watching over him. He lifts up the covers gingerly and looks down, only to discover that he's wearing only his trunks, which surprises him and causes a red tinge to appear on his cheeks. His right thigh is bandaged as is his shoulder, and the left side of his face is painful and, from experience, he knows that he has a black eye. He lifts a hand to it and feels the plaster on his cheek along with two days’ worth of beard growth. She was right to say he looks like a bus has hit him. Sighing he covers himself again and leans his head back against the pillow. The sound rouses her and she opens her eyes.

“Hi,” she says, sitting up and smiling at him, her cheeks creasing into the most gorgeous dimples.

“Hi,” he replies, his voice still low, slightly mesmerised by her. 

“If I get you some soup now,” she teases, “do you think you'll be able to stay awake long enough to eat it?”

He smiles, or tries to, the bruising and cuts making it a rather painful experience, resulting in a more crooked smile than is usual for him. “I think I can manage that,” he says. 

She stares at him for a moment, surprised at how much his face transforms when he smiles, even if only half his face seems to be taking part in the exercise at the moment. Then recollecting herself, she blushes and walks out of the room, leaving him to wonder what she was thinking.

Soon she returns with a tray which she places on the bedside table before turning to him and asking, “Would you like some help sitting up?”

“I can manage,” he murmurs and slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, clenching his jaw against the pain.

She holds the pillow against the headboard for him as she tries to control her reaction to seeing his naked upper body when the covers slip off him as he moves, strong muscles smoothly moving under his skin, bunching to accentuate his handsome physique and obvious fitness. Not having much interest in sport herself, she’s never hung out with men with abs like his before. Maybe there are some compensations for the mind-numbing boredom of watching a game of rugby, she concludes with a rueful smile. 

He grimaces slightly at the pain from his shoulder and thigh as he shuffles back and leans against the pillow. When he's settled, she wordlessly places a pillow on his lap and the tray on top of it.

“Eat,” she orders and sits back down in her chair to watch him, fighting the desire stirring in her at the sight of him, sternly telling her body in no uncertain terms that it's _never_ going to happen.

He takes his first mouthful and it tastes so good that he moans in appreciation, eliciting a smile from the young woman, and he realises that he doesn't even know her name.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Ruth,” she replies, “And yours?”

“Richard,” he lies after a momentary hesitation. He really wants to tell her his real name, but given the situation he's in, he decides that he can't break cover, regardless of how much he wants to.

She hides a smile, remembering the results of her guessing game, then frowns as another memory surfaces. “Are you working for the Security Services?” she asks. 

“No,” he replies, hiding his surprise at the accuracy of her statement. “Like I said, I'm a journalist. I was doing an undercover piece.” Her eyes quickly scan his chest, flitting over the scars on display before she raises her eyebrows at him and he can tell that she doesn't believe him. “Really,” he assures her. “I got discharged from the army about five years ago, and I've been doing this kind of undercover work ever since.”

“But that's stupid,” she replies without thinking, and realising what she's just said, she colours and adds, “I mean it's dangerous. You could get killed.”

He purses his lips. Most women he’s told the lie to think it rather brave. None have ever called him stupid. “My body craves the adrenaline rush,” he says simply. It’s true. He could never survive in an office job after so many years in the service, in the field. He thinks he might literally die of boredom and the inaction. 

She shakes her head and changes the subject, saying, “When you're done, I should change your dressings.”

“Okay,” he murmurs and turns back to his soup.

It tastes so good and warms up his insides so perfectly that he polishes it off quickly and has another bowl before he's done.

“Don't lie down,” she says. “I'll just get the first aid kit and we'll look at your shoulder first.”

She takes away the tray and returns shortly, handing him some painkillers and a glass of water.

“I hope you don’t have any allergies,” she says. “I only have Paracetamol in the house.”

“No allergies,” he confirms, swallowing the pills gratefully – the throbbing from his leg is becoming unbearable. 

She takes the glass from him and sets it aside before she sits on the edge of the bed beside him. Carefully, she unwinds the bandage, keeping her eyes determinedly on his wound and her concentration on the task at hand. Her body might be responding strongly to this attractive stranger, but she will not allow herself to give in to it. She knows nothing about him and she's pretty sure that all the information he's given her so far is a lie. Ruth can feel his eyes on her as she works, and she can't help the butterflies that have taken up residence in her stomach though she does her best to ignore them.

He watches her face and sees her frown slightly in concentration as her slender hands work to replace his bandage. _Christ, but she’s beautiful._ He could never resist a beautiful woman, but he’s never had this much trouble controlling his reaction, particularly not while on operation. He has to actually close his eyes and focus his full attention on calming himself, surprised that his body has the energy to respond to her in this way at all, particularly with the pain gnawing at his insides.

“Am I hurting you?” she asks with concern.

“No,” he replies. “How does it look?”

“You'll live, but you'll probably have another scar for your collection.”

He opens his eyes at that and their gazes meet. His eyes are a dark hazel colour, beautiful and mesmerizing, and in their depths she can see the admiration and desire he's feeling. He can feel his self-control slipping as he gazes into her stunning, intelligent eyes, the way she's looking at him leaving him in no doubt that she's experiencing the same attraction towards him that he's feeling for her, and it makes it so much harder to hold back. He almost reaches for her, but luckily for both of them, she clears her throat and murmurs something about his thigh wound before he does something they'll both regret later, not least because his lip is likely to begin bleeding – a sure way to ruin any kiss.

“Lie down then,” she orders and he obliges, turning his attention to moving without hurting himself instead.

Once he's moved down and covered his chest, she pulls the covers off his right leg and he feels her cool hand wrap around his ankle and lift his leg up. She slides the cushions down, under his calf and lowers his leg onto them. Then, slowly, she unwraps the bandage and he can feel her fingers brush his skin as she moves, making it harder and harder to control his body’s response to her. His breathing deepens, becoming more laboured.

“Are you okay?” she asks with concern at his reaction, which she attributes to the pain he must be experiencing.

“Fine,” he manages to choke out.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, hating the fact that she's hurting him. “It won't take a minute.”

 _Christ!_ He hopes that she doesn't accidentally lift the covers too high and see the evidence of his desire for her.

“It's healing nicely,” she says, ducking her head down to look at the wound, reluctant to remove the original dressing. “I don't see any redness. I'll just put another piece of gauze on top. I’m a little worried it’ll start bleeding again if I pull this one off. We should get you to a doctor in the morning.”

He nods, unable to trust his voice not to betray him, and she finishes her task, her fingers brushing against his skin again and testing his self-control even further. When she's done, he quickly covers himself with the duvet, and clearing his throat, he murmurs his thanks.

“You’re welcome,” she replies with a smile and adds, “Now get some rest.”

“I should call the office first,” he says. “They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. Do you have a phone I could use?”

“Of course. I’ll just get rid of these,” she replies and walks out of the room to put the used bandages in the rubbish, thankfully leaving him on his own for a few moments to calm himself. 

“Here,” she says as she carries the telephone over to the bedside table, and then adds, “Oh, and there's this too,” and reaching into her bag she pulls out the gun and the extra clip which she places on the bedside table. She really doesn’t want to have to get rid of them herself, and she’s not scared he’ll use them against her – not anymore. He’s been nothing but kind and grateful for her help. 

“Where did you get the clip?” he asks in surprise.

“From the pocket of the man with the hat,” she murmurs uncomfortably, shuddering at the memory.

“Thank you,” he replies and there is admiration in the tone of his voice. “That was good thinking.”

She smiles at him before putting the bag over by the wardrobe. Then she leaves the room and closes the door behind her. When he's sure he's alone, he dials the Grid and gets through to Malcolm.

“Hello, Chief, it's me,” he says, making sure that if Ruth is listening into the conversation from behind the door, she won't hear anything that won't fit with the story he's told her.

“Christ, it's good to hear from you,” Malcolm replies and he can hear the relief in his voice. “We were beginning to get worried.”

“I'm afraid that story I was working on will be delayed slightly,” he says, getting straight to the point. “I was compromised; I've no idea how. I got some good stuff, but unfortunately, I also got some injuries from the ensuing fight.”

“Is this line secure?” Malcolm asks. 

“As far as I’m aware.”

“I'm tracing your call now and will get someone to you right away,” Malcolm replies. “Are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“Right. How many?”

“One,” he smiles.

“And I bet she's very pretty too,” Malcolm mutters enviously, hearing the smile in Harry's voice.

“Aye,” he replies with a chuckle. “She is that. How much longer do you need?”

“A few seconds. Five, four, three, two, one. Got you. House belongs to a Mr Archibald Harbinger. Any sign of him about? And what the blazes are you doing in Shropshire anyway?”

Harry frowns, his mind filling with pictures of Ruth laughing with a man, playfully teasing him and calling him Archie. He blinks, forcing himself to focus. “No sign of him. And no idea on the last one. I wasn’t aware that’s where I was. They were told to take me somewhere remote and deal with me. I guess this is the best they could manage.”

“Right. Well, help is on the way. Sit tight.”

“Not much choice there,” he mutters, hanging up the phone. He sighs heavily, lies down, and closes his eyes again, grateful for the exhaustion. He’s a terrible patient and cannot abide being confined to bed, so it’s a blessing really that he’s finding it so easy to sleep. He knows from experience that by tomorrow he’ll be climbing the walls with frustration, unless perhaps he can convince his guarding angel to entertain him. Now there’s a happy thought...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'd like to take a moment to thank you all for continuing to read and for your positive reviews and encouragement. I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying this story. I realise that according to canon and the various Spooks companion books, Ruth would have been 21 in 1991, which is far too young for what follows, so for the purpose of this story, she's a little older, mid to late twenties (haven't decided how old exactly). Cheers, S.C.

_10pm_

_Small Village in Shropshire_

 

She leaves him to rest and goes outside for a little while, not far from the house now, a little fearful, if she’s honest, after last night’s events. She needs the fresh air to clear her head though as she's finding her patient far too attractive for comfort. No, worse than that, she finds him desirable to the point of distraction, something she’s never experienced before – not with a real man, at least, only with fictional characters. It's the sound of his voice, his gorgeous body, his eyes... oh God, his eyes are so very expressive. She could get lost in their shimmering depths, and when she's changing his bandages, she finds it hard to resist the temptation to kiss him better. Everywhere.

When she gets back, she finds him asleep. He's left the bedside light on, but rather than turn it off, she decides to use it and read a little until she's sleepy. She’s going to have to share a bed with him again and she doesn’t want to end up just lying there, rigid with tension for fear of inadvertently touching his warm skin and waking him, being tempted to do all manner of things to him. Far better to be exhausted and desperate for some shuteye herself when she joins him.

She makes herself some tea and carries it to the bedroom. Then picking up her book, she takes a seat in the chair by the bed and opens it. She's not quite sure why she's chosen to read in here. She has a feeling that her motives go deeper than concern that he will wake and need something, but she doesn’t probe them that deeply. She turns to her book, pushing aside further thoughts of Richard and allowing herself to get lost in the wonderful world of Greek mythology.

She's just reaching for her mug when she hears a crash coming from the hall. The sound startles her patient awake and he sits bolt upright, swiftly reaching for the gun on the bedside table. Less than a second later, the door to the room flies open and several armed men enter quickly and stealthily. They're dressed in black and have their weapons drawn. Ruth's face pales and her eyes open wide in shock, but she stifles the scream that rises to her throat. Harry lowers his gun and places it back on the bedside table slowly, making sure that the armed men can see his every move.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” he demands, once it's safely on the bedside table as one of the men steps forward and removes it from his reach. He's utterly furious that they've sent Special Branch to extract him. It's completely unnecessary to scare Ruth like this.

The four men who have entered the room move aside and one of them, their commander, says, “All clear, Sir.”

A tall, blonde man dressed in a black polo shirt and dark trousers walks into the room. He glances at Ruth briefly and turns to look at Harry. She thinks that there's a glimmer of recognition in both men's eyes, but it's gone so fast that she's not sure she hasn't imagined it.

“You need to come with us,” he states calmly.

“Who are you?” Harry demands.

“We work for the government,” the man replies. “You have information we need.” Then turning around, the man walks from the room, saying to the commander of the unit, “Bring them.”

Two men move towards Harry, and despite her anxiety and fear, Ruth can't help but exclaim, “Be careful. He's injured.”

The men pause and look at their commander. He studies Ruth for a second and then orders one of his men to bring in a stretcher. Her eyes lock with Harry's and they hold each other's gaze for a moment. She can see admiration in them and something else, but she has no time to figure out what it is before strong hands seize her arms, and she's escorted from the room and into a waiting car. She's sandwiched between two burly men, the doors slam shut, and the vehicle speeds off towards London.

Once the stretcher's brought into the bedroom, the commander pulls the duvet back and pauses as he notices Harry's near nakedness. He raises his eyebrows questioningly and Harry says with a grin, “Don't ask me, Mate. I was unconscious.”

“You spooks have all the bloody luck,” the officer grumbles and directs one of his men to grab a blanket. They wrap Harry in it, heave him onto the stretcher, and carry him out to the waiting van.

 

 

_3 rd September 1991, 1 am_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

“Why the hell did you send Special Branch?!” he demands when he sees Malcolm.

“I didn't,” Malcolm relies. “That was Coolidge. He thinks the young lady might know something.”

“Like hell she does,” he fumes. “She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“More like the right place at the right time,” Malcolm points out, “or else you wouldn't be here.”

“That's true,” he concedes with a quick, lopsided grin.

They're in the medical treatment room at MI-5 Headquarters, where Harry was taken just after he arrived. The doctor on duty made him comfortable and treated his injuries, pronouncing that Ruth did a remarkably good job with them and then, just as she'd finished, Malcolm had appeared, wishing to make sure Harry's alright.

The door opens again and Coolidge steps into the room. “What happened, Pearce?” he asks without preamble.

“It's good to see you too, Sir,” Harry replies in a mildly sarcastic tone, still annoyed about the method of his extraction.

Malcolm cringes slightly, but Harry has always been able to resist Coolidge's stare and so is given more leeway than most.

“Well?” Coolidge asks, choosing to just ignore Harry's comment.

“I don't know how they figured out who I was,” Harry frowns, “but once they did, two of them grabbed me in the night and overpowered me. They tied my hands and took me to a derelict farm. Then the big bloke knocked me about a bit, trying to get me to reveal who I was working for. He had the gun aimed at my head when Ruth came out of nowhere and yelled, 'What the hell do you think you're doing?'” He pauses, smiling fondly at the memory before he continues, “It was enough to distract the bastard, so I wrestled with him for the gun and chocked him, though not before I got shot in the leg. Then the other bastard came to investigate. I played dead, which was the best I could do with my thigh, unable as I was to get a clear shot at him as he came up the hill towards me in the dark. I was biding my time, waiting for a clear shot, when Ruth distracted him too and I took my chance. I think I got him in the head. She cut me free and tried to help me up, but I couldn't stand. She had the presence of mind to get the van and use it to drive me to her house. Then she helped me to bed and left to return the van. Next thing I remember is waking up to find her sitting in a chair reading. She saved my life, Sir.”

“Right,” Coolidge says. “I’ll bear that in mind when I question her. In the meantime, I want you two to figure out how your cover was blown while I talk to Miss Evershed.” He turns on his heel, and as he's leaving the room, he adds, “And for God's sake, put some clothes on, Pearce.”

 

 

_1:30 am_

 

Ruth is sitting on a very uncomfortable chair in a very uncomfortable room. It's made of concrete and the only furniture in it is a table and two plastic chairs. They'd arrived in London about thirty minutes ago, she thinks, after which she was shoved into this room and left alone. She has gone from feeling terrified, to afraid, to angry, to livid and now she's settled on just plain tired. She places her arms on the table, and laying her head on them, she closes her eyes. Less than a minute later, the door's pushed open with a loud bang and her head snaps up. _So that was it_ , she thinks, all she had to do to get this over with was pretend to go to sleep.

The man who's caused her rude awakening is tall and lean, but the first thing she notices about him are his piercing, blue eyes.

“Miss Evershed,” he says in a pleasant voice, “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.”

He takes a seat opposite her and holds an open folder in front of him. She glances at it, but he angles it so she can't see its contents.

“Are you?” she asks rather rudely, but she's not feeling particularly polite at such a time in the morning after the treatment she's received.

“Yes,” he replies smoothly.

“Well,” she says, “that's something I suppose. Could I get a drink of water, please?”

“Yes, of course,” he answers. “I'll get you one in a minute. Now, please tell me how you know,” he looks down at his notes briefly, “Richard?”

She studies the man for a few moments. There is an aura of power about him and she can see that he's used to being in charge and getting his own way.

“We met less than two days ago. He was injured and I helped him out,” she replies.

“You are a doctor?” he asks.

“You know perfectly well that I’m not. In fact, I'm certain you know practically everything about me by now – when and where I was born, where I live, where my mother lives, when my father died, and quite likely, even who I voted for in the last election,” she says calmly, “so please don't treat me like an idiot... Sir.”

He smiles. “Why didn't you take him to hospital?”

“He asked me not to.”

“Didn't that strike you as a little suspicious?”

“Not really,” she replies. “Those men tried to kill him, so I assumed that he was worried that their mates would find him and finish him off. He told me the group he'd infiltrated had good connections.”

“Did it ever occur to you that he might be lying to you?”

“I know he lied to me.”

“Please explain,” he replies, intrigued by her response.

“I'd like some water first, please,” she answers and looks steadily into his eyes.

They stare at each other for a long time, and Ruth is thrilled when her interrogator gives in and has a glass of water brought to her by the blonde officer she'd met at the house. As he hands her the cup, he looks at her with interest and she's sure there's admiration in his gaze. She smiles at him and thanks him for the water before he leaves. She sips the water slowly, making it last as she's sure it’ll be much harder to get a second glass, if not downright impossible.

“Well?” the man says.

“He didn't give me his real name,” she replies, “and I believe that he's one of your officers.”

“What makes you say that?” he asks cautiously.

“You have an aura of being in charge here,” she answers, deliberately misunderstanding his question.

“I meant,” he says with more of an edge to his voice, “what makes you think he works for the Security Services?”

“The whole story about being an undercover journalist didn't ring true to me,” she answers with a frown. She doesn't want to push him too far and cause him to get angry, but she's pleased she's getting under his skin. Normally she wouldn’t be this bold, but the lateness of the hour and the treatment she's received have made her a little reckless. So she opts for showing off her talents and showing him exactly how well she can analyse any situation. “Then there's the number of scars he has on his chest and arms – knife wounds, burns. Even in the army, I don’t imagine people get injured that often and in such a way. His reluctance to be taken to hospital also seemed a little odd. It struck me as being a little paranoid. The men he fought were nowhere near as good as he was in combat, which likely means that the organization he was investigating was comprised of a number of thugs with nothing better to do with their time than create trouble. These kind of people wouldn't be able to figure out where he was in hospital, let alone mount an attack there. Of course, if they were indeed well connected, they might have been able to hire a professional.”

Coolidge doesn't know what to make of this young woman in front of him. She hasn't crumbled under his stare, she's identified one of his best officers as a spook, has analysed the situation perfectly and is looking at him with defiance.

“Miss Evershed,” Coolidge says in a cold voice. “The man you know as Richard is not, in fact, one of my officers, nor is he a journalist as you so rightly deduced. He's a very dangerous man and we're grateful for your help in apprehending him.”

She frowns slightly and asks, “Dangerous in what way?”

“I'm not at liberty to divulge that information,” he replies and then adds, “Now, please tell me exactly what happened.”

“I will,” she says, suddenly tired of this cat and mouse game, “but I don't believe you about Richard. I'm a good judge of character, and he's not dangerous, at least not to people who don't threaten his country. I still believe that he's an MI-5 officer whatever you might say.”

He doesn't argue with her but waits for her to tell her story, which she does with a few interruptions from him. He wants to know why she risked her life to save this man and why she took care of him instead of taking him to hospital. The first question's easy to answer. She just couldn't stand by and watch him being executed, even if it cost her, her own life. She's a firm believer that, if more people stood up against crime and injustice, we wouldn't have had the holocaust or any number of other genocides and crimes against humanity. The second question isn't so easy to answer. She chose to trust him, and despite everything, she still does. She frowns as she realises this, but she knows she doesn't have time to analyse it now, so she files it away in her brain for later.

She's exhausted now and is having difficulty keeping herself together. All she wants to do is have a cup of tea, a good cry, and a warm bed to sleep in, and not necessarily in that order.

“I've told you all I know,” she says wearily. “Please, may I go home now?”

“What about the gun?” he asks.

“Richard told me to take it with us, so I did,” she answers. “I also took an extra clip from the big bloke's pocket.”

“Thank you, Miss Evershed,” he smiles and gets up to leave. “I'll have one of my officers take you to a safe-house. We may have more questions for you in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she replies and gets up also.

He studies her for a moment, then nodding his farewell, he leaves the room and she hears him instruct someone outside to take her to a safe-house.

The young officer with the blonde hair is the one who enters the room and smiles at her. “James Harold,” he says extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Evershed. I'm sorry this has taken so long. I'll be taking you to a safe-house for tonight.”

“Thank you,” she says tiredly. “As long as it has tea and a warm bed, I won't complain.”

He laughs and they exit the room together.


	7. Chapter 7

_3 rd September 1991, 8 am_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

“Sir, I think I've figured it out,” Mark declares as he walks into Coolidge's office.

“Tell me,” he invites, putting down his pen.

“I think there's a leak.”

“Who?” Coolidge growls, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“I'm not sure,” Mark admits, “but I was going through the information we collected from Harry and it seems to me that we don't have anything. Considering he's been in there almost two weeks we should have more details, vital information about the members, their families, what type of attack they're planning. When we lost the group, it was only because Malcolm found the aunt that we could track them again. Nothing Harry had given us worked.”

Coolidge nods and repeats, “Who?”

“I don't know, but I think it's someone from outside the team,” Mark offers. “They don't appear to have a lot of information on our operation. Just Harry as a mole, but no personal info on him. If they'd had that, they wouldn't have let one man deal with him.”

Coolidge nods again and picks up the phone.

“Jones, get in here,” he barks into it, and a few moments later, they’re joined by Malcolm. Mark briefs him on what he's found and they both leave the office, Malcolm looking rather grim. He takes these kinds of failures very personally and he's determined to set the record straight.

 

 

_10 am_

 

“Good morning, Miss Evershed,” Coolidge greets. “I hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you,” Ruth replies, slightly taken aback by his politeness.

They're in a meeting room this time, not an interrogation room. Ruth has a cup of tea in front of her and a comfortable chair to sit in.

“Miss Evershed,” Coolidge says seriously, “I'll get straight to the point. I can see that you'll be starting work at GCHQ shortly as you have passed all the vetting and have been offered a job there. Your CV is very impressive for someone so young and your recent actions have saved the life of one of my best operatives. We could use someone with your talents here in Section D. Would you consider working for me as an analyst instead?”

Ruth's momentarily stunned – whatever she'd been expecting to hear, this wasn’t it. However, once she recovers from the shock, her brain goes into overdrive and she realises that this is an opportunity of a lifetime that she cannot pass up.

“Yes, please, Sir,” she responds eagerly.

“Excellent,” he smiles. “I'll have Adams sort out your passes today and you'll be able to start immediately.”

“Immediately, Sir?” Ruth asks with a frown.

“The operation we’re working on right now is of utmost significance and we cannot delay,” Coolidge states. “You may stay at the safe-house you were given yesterday. We have already retrieved your belongings from the bungalow in Shropshire and they have been taken there.”

“Right,” Ruth murmurs, slightly dazed by the speed of these developments, though not for a moment does she reconsider her decision to accept the position.

“Once this operation's finished,” he adds, “there will be a brief training course and you will have time to sort out your accommodation and anything else you need.” Ruth nods and he gets up, saying, “Please follow me, Miss Evershed, and I'll introduce you to the team. Then you can get started.”

 

 

_11 am_

 

Half an hour later, Ruth finds herself sitting at her new desk, sifting through the documents in front of her. Malcolm has brought her up to speed on the current investigation. When she'd entered the Grid, only Malcolm Wynn-Jones, the chief technical specialist and analyst, and Mark Adams, the tall, blonde field agent that she'd met yesterday, were present from the senior team. At first she'd been a little dazed by the busy atmosphere on the Grid, but with Malcolm's initial help and direction she's managed to find her feet and is confidently following his instructions.

“Meeting room, now!” Coolidge barks, making her jump.

Looking up, she sees him striding off to a large room, and for a moment, she remains frozen in her seat. Should she follow? Is she invited? It’s decided for her when Malcolm rounds the corner, catches her eye, and motions for her to follow, which she does, hastily gathering some information she's put together in case it’s needed. As they approach the corridor to the meeting room, someone steps forward on crutches and she immediately recognises 'Richard'.

“Finally got yourself sorted with some clothes then?” Malcolm pauses to ask with a lopsided grin, before making his way into the meeting room.

“Very funny, Malcolm,” Harry calls after him and mutters, “You're just jealous,” under his breath so that Ruth doesn't hear him. Then turning to her, he holds out his hand and says, “Harry Pearce. Pleased to formally meet you.”

She smiles and replies, “Ruth Evershed,” and takes his hand in hers. Her fingers tingle at the contact, and a warmth runs through her and settles in her abdomen, taking her rather by surprise. She drops his hand and looks away quickly, sure that her eyes betray her reaction to his touch.

“I wanted to thank you,” he continues in a low voice, “for saving my life.”

She looks back at his eyes and notes that they're darker than they were a moment ago, and she's convinced that their attraction is mutual, even if his desire for her is most likely due to her own response to him. After all, what man wouldn't find a woman who lusts after him attractive? He's a charmer, a man confident in himself and his ability to attract women and please them, and she knows without looking that, if she examines his personnel file, she'll find a long list of liaisons in it. She, on the other hand, has had less than a handful of boyfriends and only a couple of them have been serious enough relationships to progress to the bedroom. To be fair, however, she's never felt such a powerful sexual attraction to any man before, and she finds herself unsure of how to deal with it. Realizing that he's watching her carefully, she shakes herself free of these thoughts and murmurs, “It was nothing.”

She feels her cheeks heat up, and as he leans towards her, her breath catches in her throat, her stomach tying itself in knots from a mixture of apprehension and desire. Slowly, he moves his mouth near her ear and whispers, “I would hardly call that nothing, Ruth. It's not everyday one gets to meet one's guardian angel.”

He pulls away and winks before he turns and limps towards the meeting room on his crutches. She exhales suddenly and watches him walk away for a moment before she follows him into the room, annoyed with herself for allowing him to rattle her so easily. If she's going to be any good as a spy, she's going to have to develop a thicker skin and train herself to hide her thoughts and feelings much better than she's managed so far.


	8. Chapter 8

_3 rd September 1991, 6 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

 

By the end of the day, they're no closer to discovering the mole and Ruth can't help feeling frustrated and annoyed with herself. She'd so wanted to make a good impression on her new boss, on her first day, secretly hoping to be the one to figure it all out and hand him the person responsible for sabotaging the op and almost getting Harry killed on a plate.

“It's late,” Mark says, grabbing a seat and bringing it close to her workstation. “You should get some rest, Ruth.”

She sighs and looks up, smiling wanly. “You're probably right,” she concedes. “I feel like I've been going round in circles for the last hour or so.”

He smiles and gets up. “I know the feeling. Come on. I'll give you a lift home.”

“Home?”

“The safe-house,” he amends.

“Well, at least it has tea, a bed, and hot water,” she replies, smiling as she gets up and grabs her coat and bag.

“No food?” Mark frowns.

“There were eggs and milk for breakfast. Does that count?”

“Then I'll buy you dinner.”

She frowns, feeling suddenly weary. She has not yet mastered the art of hiding her emotions, however, and her reaction must show on her face because he smiles and leans in, saying conspiratorially, “Don't worry, Ruth. I'm a happily married man. It's Harry you need to watch out for.”

She's not sure what to say to that, so she changes the subject. “Actually, I'm rather tired, so if you don't mind, a quick stop at the supermarket would be just the thing. That way I'll have something to eat for the rest of the week as well.”

“Sure thing,” he agrees and follows her towards the pods. Before they get there, however, a young woman, whom she has yet to meet, crosses their path, bumping into Ruth's shoulder with a vicious kind of satisfaction, and walks straight on, never bothering to apologise or even acknowledge Ruth.

“What the hell?” she frowns after the woman, totally confused. It's as if that was done deliberately and she can't for the life of her think why this unknown woman has such a deep dislike of her for no apparent reason. She doesn't even know who she is!

“Nice,” Mark calls after her. “Very mature that, Jenna.” The woman in question sends him a filthy look and makes a rather rude hand-gesture before disappearing round the corner. “Are you alright?” Mark asks her, his face full of concern.

“I’m fine. What was that about?”

“That's Jenna, one of the junior field agents. She joined us a few months ago.”

“Do I know her?” Ruth frowns, turning to look at him.

“No.” He sighs, then adds, “She's involved, or rather, she likes to _think_ she’s involved with Harry. I suspect she's feeling a little jealous.”

“Jealous? Of me?!”

He just raises an eyebrow at her and gives her a knowing little smile.

“Oh please! If she wants Harry, she can have him. Just because I saved his life, it doesn't mean I want to sleep with him.” And with that she turns and walks through the pods, silently fuming as she leaves Mark to follow if he chooses. _Sodding Harry Pearce!_

It really bothers her that people assume that she will fall into Harry's bed without a second thought just because he wants her to, and she spends what feels like half the night worrying about it, especially since there _is_ a raw kind of attraction between them and part of her would like nothing more than to give into it and shag him senseless.

She never gives into that part of her though. She never gives in to her baser desires, though admittedly they've never been as strong as this before. Besides, Harry strikes her as being a bit of an arrogant prat and she certainly would never want to give him the satisfaction of having her when it'll only serve to make him more smug and insufferable than he is already.

 

 

_4 th September 1991, 7 am_

_140 Gower Street_

 

“Malcolm!” she calls the moment she's dropped her things off at her station and spies him crossing the Grid.

“Good morning, Ruth,” he smiles. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thanks,” she replies quickly, her excitement making her speak quickly. “I had an idea last night,” she adds as she reaches him.

Malcolm's face turns serious and he directs her through to the technical suite. “Go on,” he encourages once he's certain they're alone. Coolidge wants the bare minimum of people involved on this op now and even fewer on finding the mole. The last thing they need is for the mole to alert the Bond group that they've found them again. They're finally getting somewhere with gathering information now that they think they got rid of the threat by taking out Harry.

“I was thinking,” Ruth explains, her excitement infectious. “What if it's not financial gain? What if the mole is doing it for some other reason?”

He nods. “Like what?”

“I thought maybe...” She hesitates. “What if he's doing it for love?”

“A romantic involvement?” Malcolm frowns.

“Not necessarily. It could be a friendship, or siblings. I'm just thinking that maybe our mole is trying to protect someone. Perhaps they even think it'll be temporary. Maybe they're convinced they can talk the person they care about out of being part of the organisation and they just want to buy themselves some time.”

“Okay,” he nods. “It's a good theory. Let's run with it. Where do you suggest we start?”

“I thought perhaps we could ask Harry if there's anyone he doesn't recognise, anyone he hasn't met. If I was the mole, I'd want to make sure that Harry never laid eyes on the person I cared about.”

“Okay. Let's grab Harry and-”

“I hope that sentence ends with feed him because I'm starved,” Harry interrupts, making Ruth jump.

He chuckles at her reaction, his eyes taking her in with a familiarity that makes her heart race. _Damn him!_

“How's the leg this morning?” Malcolm asks.

Harry grimaces. “I had to leave Jess at home,” he complains.

Malcolm smiles. “Don't tell me you took the bus?!”

Harry just gives him a look.

“What's wrong with the bus?” Ruth frowns, trying to avoid asking the obvious question about Jess. She's annoyed with herself for feeling a pang of jealousy.

“Everything,” is Harry's succinct reply. “Now, what did you want me to do?”

Malcolm looks around again to make sure no one can overhear and drops his voice. “Ruth believes our mole might have an attachment to someone in the Bond group and is trying to protect them, possibly attempting to talk them out of being involved, and in the meantime, sabotaging our surveillance. She thought we should have you look at the new surveillance footage to see if there are any members you don't recognise because they might be the link we're looking for.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. “Good thinking. I can do that right away.” He winks at Ruth and hobbles over to the computer Malcolm has tucked into the corner that is running their surveillance feeds. He's not using crutches today, just a fancy-looking walking stick, and she wonders at how quickly he's managing to recover. Unless he's just hiding the pain in some stupid male attempt to appear strong and virile.

She shakes her head and turns to go back to her station, determined once again to find their mole. She'll go through all the personnel files and make a list of possible connections. Perhaps she can find pictures of all their family members that she can compare with the footage they have.


	9. Chapter 9

_4 th September 1991, _ _12pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

She's had mixed results with her project so far, having ruled out quite a few of their agents, but unable to get up to date photos of family members for the rest of them. Of course, it might be a friend or lover the mole's trying to protect, in which case she'll have to start over from scratch. Or she might be entirely wrong in her theory.

She sighs and stretches, looking up to find the Grid teeming with activity. Lunchtime, she thinks and realises that she's starving. Perhaps Malcolm would like to go out and grab some lunch. She likes Malcolm.

She finds him where she'd left him, Harry still beside him.

“How's it going?”

“Three of them,” Malcolm replies, handing her the pictures he's printed out from the screen.

“That's good. Do we know who they are?”

“Not yet. I've ordered the surveillance team to focus on them so we should know more soon.”

“Lunch?” Harry suggests before she can.

“Yes,” she replies a little wearily. “Malcolm?”

“You two go ahead,” he says, and she wonders if perhaps Harry's had a talk with him and asked him not to cock-block him.

She folds her arms defensively. “Perhaps Jenna would like to join us,” she says pointedly and sees Malcolm quickly turn away to hide a smile. 

Harry groans. “What's she been telling you?”

“Me?! Nothing. We’ve not been introduced.”

“Ah. Then people have been warning you against me, is that it?”

She glances uncomfortably at Malcolm, who's studiously focusing on his work and pretending he cannot hear their conversation.

“ _Malcolm?!”_ He sounds incredulous and rather hurt.

“No, no,” she hastens to say as Malcolm lifts his gaze to Harry's upon hearing his name.

“Sorry, what?” he asks innocently, impressing her with his nonchalance. She really needs to learn that trick and fast. She can’t keep letting Harry read her like an open book.

“No one's been warning me against you, Harry. I have eyes. I don't need any warnings,” she says crossly and turns away, irritated by the whole exchange and especially the fact that it's happening at work around her new colleagues.

“Ruth,” he calls after her, but she doesn't turn back, making her way to her desk to grab her coat and bag, determined to get lunch on her own instead. Much to her annoyance, however, he somehow manages to catch up with her at the lifts, in spite of his injured leg. She gives him her best, withering stare and steps into the lift, but he doesn’t give up that easily. “Ruth,” he says again, following her into it. “Look. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” She rounds on him, her eyes on fire.

“Yes.”

“Good, because you’re making my life impossible. You want to repay me for saving your life, Harry? Then stay the hell away from me!”

He looks genuinely taken aback by her words.

“This job is an opportunity of a lifetime for me, but if you continue like this, you’re going to ruin it.” She turns away again, not wanting him to see the tears that have gathered in her eyes.

“You’re right,” he says after a long silence and a little soul-searching. “I’m sorry, Ruth. My behaviour has been appalling. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“I’d appreciate that,” she tells him, without turning to face him, rather surprised and a little suspicious at the way he’s backing off so quickly.

“Let me buy you lunch,” he offers, only to have her glare at him. “To apologise,” he clarifies quickly, “and to thank you for what you did back there, at the farm. I really am grateful.” He gives her his best puppy-dog eyes, hoping to sway her. “A peace offering?”

She’s tempted to tell him where to stick it, but she realises that she has to see him every day on the Grid, work with him closely, seeing as he’s actually one of the most senior officers, and she can’t afford not to give him a chance to prove himself capable of changing his behaviour towards her. Not if she wants to keep this job. He could destroy all her prospects at MI-5 in a flash if he chose, so she can’t afford to alienate him entirely. She hates being in this position.

She sighs and nods her head, stepping out of the lift as it pings open. “Alright, Harry,” she says, “just as long as it’s clear that it’s only a peace offering and I’m never going to sleep with you.”

 

 

_12:45pm_

 

To her surprise, she’s enjoyed herself, now that Harry’s stopped trying to flirt with her, is relaxed, and just being friendly. It seems he can be true to his word, even if he _i_ _s_ a spook – at least, temporarily – and he’s surprisingly well read and interested in a variety of subjects, she’s discovered. They’ve talked about literature, music, and philosophy, in the short time they’ve shared this meal, and she’s impressed. Perhaps, if his new behaviour lasts, they might even get to become friends over the next few months. She thinks she might like that. She really hates antagonizing people and having tension between them. Of course, with Harry, she rather suspects the tension is not going to dissipate soon, no matter how harmonious a work relationship or friendship they manage to build.

“Dessert?” he offers, but she shakes her head.

“No thanks.”

“Go on,” he cajoles. “Have some cake. I’ll feel bad eating it alone.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t eat it either.”

He wrinkles his nose, making him look rather sinister, what with all the bruising on his face and the cut on his cheek and lip. People have been doing the most comical double takes when they see him, so he has taken to just smiling and telling them, “Bike accident.”

“I’m not sure I can resist the temptation,” he murmurs.

“It’s not good for you, and besides, we should be getting back,” she says, standing and looking down at him expectantly. “Coming?”

He sighs. “Alright. Let me settle the bill then.”

They walk back slowly, owing to Harry’s limp.

“Are you sure you should be walking without crutches?”

“I’m fine,” he says, but she can see the beads of perspiration on his brow and she’d bet a month’s salary that he’s in a lot of pain, despite the bravado. She’s pretty certain that he shouldn’t be putting his weight on his leg yet, but thankfully his care is no longer her problem. Still, it’s a good job they didn’t go very far from the Grid for lunch.

“You never give into temptation, do you?” he asks her a few moments later.

She glances at him, sure he’s not talking _just_ about the cake.

“Nope,” she confirms. “And I bet you never say no to temptation either.”

“Rarely,” he agrees with a disarming half-smile.

“If you don’t hold yourself to some standards then you just end up disappointing yourself and those you care about,” she tells him.

“If you never allow yourself to be spontaneous,” he counters, “you miss out on all the things that make life worth living.”

She shakes her head. “No, you don’t. Planning is what helps you get the most out of the experience. Every time I’ve been spontaneous, I’ve regretted missing something, something I wouldn’t have overlooked if I’d done the research properly beforehand.”

He smiles.

“What?”

“I’m just relieved to hear you _have_ been spontaneous about _something_ in your life, Ruth. I’d be obliged to feel sorry for you if you hadn’t.”

 

 

_7pm_

 

She makes a frustrated sound and scrunches up the piece of paper in front of her, turning it into a ball and tossing it towards the waste paper basket, missing it quite spectacularly.

“Not a former netball player then,” Mark says, walking over to her and leaning against the edge of the desk beside hers.

She looks up, her eyes alighting on his face. “Sorry?”

“Nothing. No luck?” he asks.

She shakes her head, lifting her arms up and stretching, letting her eyes roam over the deserted space around her. “What time is it?”

“Time to call it a day,” he replies. “I’m here to take you home.”

She frowns.

“Coolidge ordered me to take care of you,” he clarifies.

Her frown deepens.

“Because you’re new,” he hastens to add.

“Right. I suppose it’s good of him to feel concerned.”

“Between you and me, I think he’s rather impressed by you. I think he sees great potential in you.”

She sighs, lifting her hands to rub her face. “I hope to God you mean as an analyst, Mark, because if-”

“Of course,” he interrupts, sounding a little alarmed.

“Good,” she says in relief. “That’s good.” And she gives him a grateful smile.

“I can have a word with him if you like,” he offers.

“Coolidge?”

“No. Harry.” He looks a little uncomfortable as he says it, but she quickly dismisses it with a wave of her hand.

“It’s fine. It’s taken care of. He’s promised to stop.”

“Good,” Mark replies, sounding relieved.

“Just give me a moment and I’ll collect my things,” she says, putting an end to their conversation. She hates that the circumstances that lead to her getting this job are the same ones that are making it so difficult. If she hadn’t saved Harry’s life, Harry wouldn’t have behaved with such familiarity and people wouldn’t just assume she’d fall for it, but then she wouldn’t be here either. She’s buried herself in her work to avoid the others’ gazes, whispers and innuendos, but even there, it’s only lead to frustration as she comes up against one brick wall after another. There seem to be no direct links between anyone in Bond’s group and the personnel in their section.

When she thinks about it, it’s logical, seeing as they seem to be unaware that MI-5 has found them again and has them under tight surveillance. If there was a mole in Section D, they’d tell them that for sure. It’s a puzzle that’s proving hard to crack.


	10. Chapter 10

_13 th September 1991, 9 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

 

The week has passed quickly but, though the rest of the op is going well, they’ve still had no luck finding out who compromised Harry. The three men Harry had never met had turned out to have no connection they could find to anyone in MI-5, and though they have not given up looking for their mole, Ruth has been given other tasks, on other operations. Not that that’s stopped her from taking their failure personally, obsessing about who the mole could be, and using some of her time every night to continue searching for them.

“You’re not still here _again_ , Ruth,” Mark says, incredulously.

“I think I must be, or you’d be hallucinating.”

He laughs. “Come on. Take a break for a change. Join us at the pub.”

She looks up. “You’re going too?” She knows Mark rarely does. Normally he goes home to his wife in the evenings.

“Friday night,” he explains.

She smiles. “And I suppose Saturday night is date night?”

“Exactly. Sue’s out with her mates tonight too.”

She nods, turns back to the pile of papers in front of her, sighs and nods again. “Alright. Pub it is.”

“Excellent.”

She likes Mark. He’s a friendly bloke, respectful and smart, who doesn’t seem to care for gossip. Malcolm too, and in the last few days, she’s made some friends amongst the women in their section – Nancy and Connie, both of them desk spooks like her. Nancy is only a few years older than her and has been here just over two years. Connie is older and wiser, around Harry and Malcolm’s age, experienced and very smart – nothing gets by her. She seems to know just how to put ‘the boys’, as she calls them, back in their places and even Coolridge seems a little wary of her. She’s quite opinionated, sarcastic, and things need to be done her way or there’s trouble, but she’s also a wonderful ally and her protection has undone a lot of the damage that Harry’s thoughtlessly managed to inflict on her reputation. He’s not a bad bloke really. She understands that he’s just unused to thinking of anyone but himself and finds it tricky to see things from another’s point of view when it comes to his own behaviour. Peter, her step-brother, is just like that.

Connie hasn’t managed to fix everything, of course. A lot of the younger lot, particularly the women, are still keeping their distance, she suspects, out of loyalty to Jenna though, apparently, according to Connie – who seems to know most of what’s going on here – she’s deluding herself about Harry. Even if that’s the case, however, Jenna has clearly been expecting more from him – whatever their initial interaction had been that had sparked her obsession – for want of a better word. She can understand that. Literature is full of women who fall for the wrong man and hope to change him, only to discover that they can’t. She, herself, discovered a long time ago that people can only change themselves. Trying to make them change is a waste of everyone’s time and effort.

She knows from others and her own limited observation that Harry’s remarkably brave – sometimes bordering on reckless. He’s intelligent, has a good sense of humour, is charming and disarmingly attractive when he wants to be, yet he’s serious about work and a decent leader on the Grid. He puts the safety of civilians and other officers first, and always brings his best self forward when on operation. For these reasons alone, he’s well respected by the others and his less than stellar traits overlooked. And he  _has_ kept his word to her, for which she’s very grateful. It’s just that she’s also gathered that his personal life is a mess, that he can be rather selfish, that he drinks too much, and that he has a temper. She hasn’t seen him lose it yet, but she’s heard stories of pub brawls from Connie – Connie loves to tell stories. So no matter how attractive she still finds him, how much her stomach ties itself in knots when he’s near, she can’t possibly let herself succumb to the temptation. She’s sure it’ll pass eventually anyway and, in the meantime, she finds the willpower to resist him.

The pub is noisy and the rest of the team rather boisterous. It’s the first time she’s joined them for something social and she’s feeling rather apprehensive, unsure of how she will be received. Connie’s there, however, so all is well and everyone friendly, most of them acknowledging her with a smile and nod of the head. She gets herself sorted with a half pint of cider and sits beside Connie and Malcolm, Mark taking a seat at the opposite end of the table, near Chris and Leon. They probably want to talk sport.

“Glad you could join us, Ruth,” Malcolm says in his gentle way, giving her a lopsided little smile before taking another sip of his whiskey. She’s never seen him drink before, but it doesn’t surprise her to find out that he’s a fan of whiskey. It used to be her father’s drink of preference too and it fits Malcolm – he seems older than his thirty-something years.

“Thanks, Malcolm,” she replies with a smile. “What did I miss?”

It’s Connie who answers of course. “Not a lot really. They’ve been talking about the riots or rugby all evening. It’s enough to make you down two G&Ts in under an hour, I tell you.” And with that, she picks up her glass and takes another sip.

Ruth smiles, but sure enough, most of the men at their table are talking about football and most of the women about the equally boring subject of footwear, at the moment. She can never bring herself to care much about either subject in conversation, so she turns to look around the pub, wondering where Harry’s got to. She daren’t ask, of course, daren’t betray how much she thinks about him because that would be suicide. She can’t see him anywhere. Perhaps he didn’t come or has already pulled and gone off to shag the lucky woman senseless – she’s sure he wouldn’t let a little thing like a gun shot wound get in the way of his entertainment.

“How are you settling in, Ruth?” Malcolm asks.

“I’m fine. Still at the safehouse, but I’m looking for somewhere to rent. Coolidge said I could take my time finding somewhere, which is nice, but I want to do it soon. It’s not easy living out of a suitcase.”

“Shame you don’t get on with Jenna,” Connie replies with a little smirk. “She’s been looking for a housemate.”

“Funny,” she replies.

Connie grins. “I thought so.”

“I have a room,” Malcolm says quietly, “if you like. It’s just a room, not a flat, but it’s there if you need it...”

“Thanks, Malcolm. That’s sweet of you.” She smiles and rests her hand on his arm in gratitude briefly. “I’ll see what I can find, but it’s good to know I have a backup and won’t end up homeless.”

He rewards her with another, brief, lopsided smile. He really does have a lovely smile.

“Harry has a spare room too,” Connie says. “I’m surprised he hasn’t offered it to you yet.”

She narrows her eyes at her. She’s either had too much to drink, she decides, or she’s in one of her moods. Or it could be both. She’s only known her a little over a week, but she’s a quick study and has already figured out that it’s best not to rise to the bate when Connie’s like this. “That’s probably because he knows I’d pass,” she replies smoothly.

“Well, let us know when you’ve found it. We could help move things in if you like,” Malcolm hastens to interject.

“I will. Thanks.” She smiles at him and takes another sip of her drink, feeling rather relieved when the sound of a chair scraping the floor near them interrupts their conversation. If Connie’s going to start teasing her about Harry too, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to bear it.

“Alright, Ruth?” Harry’s warm voice greets her, even before she turns her head to see who the newcomer is. She feels her cheeks flush and can’t help the way her heart-rate trebles, his unexpected appearance throwing her, but luckily for her, he doesn’t wait for a response, reaching across the table to grab his pint and bringing it to his lips, thirstily downing half its contents. “Ahhhh,” he sighs. “That’s better.”

“Good game, was it?” Connie asks.

“Oh yes,” he replies and pats his pocket.

Connie rolls her eyes, but Malcolm merely says, “Marvelous. Next round’s on you then.”

Harry laughs. “I’d be honoured, Malcolm.”

He turns his eyes on hers then, his warm smile doing odd things to her insides. She’s not seen him look this happy before and it’s quite bewitching. “Pool,” he explains, but she’s so distracted by him and her body’s treacherous response that she almost doesn’t understand him.

“You’re good at it then?” she says and hastily takes another gulp of cider.

“Of course he is,” Connie responds, her voice rather disdainful. She has a dark side. Ruth knows that, but she’s never seen her this narky before.

“Poker too,” Malcolm confides. “Don’t ever let him talk you into a game.”

“Oi! Stop giving away my secrets.”

“Hardly a secret though, is it?” Jenna interjects, surprising Ruth. She hadn’t realised she was sitting that close to them and able to overhear their conversation. “Everyone in the Section knows it.” Her tone of voice is haughty and she gives him a withering look before tossing her hair over her shoulder and turning back to her friends. Clearly she’s stopped trying to seduce Harry and is intent on getting even instead.

Harry just raises an eyebrow and smirks before taking another gulp of his drink and turning back to them. He catches her eye and winks at her, which sets off alarm bells in her head and she hastily looks away, downing the remainder of her drink.

“Come on, Malcolm,” Harry says. “Ruth’s finished her drink, Connie’s almost there. Drink up and I’ll get us all another.”

“Thanks, Harry, but I think I’ll call it a night,” Malcolm replies. “I’ve got to be in early tomorrow.”

“Me too,” Connie echoes. “I’ve had enough for one night.” She doesn’t specify whether she means the G&T or their company.

She looks around, wondering who she can stay with if Malcolm and Connie are leaving. Nancy isn’t here and Mark’s engaged in an animated debate about football. That leaves Harry and she can’t stay with him. The gossip would be horrendous. “I think I might go too. It’s been a long week,” she says quickly.

Harry sighs. “Fine. I should probably head home as well. Early start tomorrow.”

Malcolm nods sagely. “Ah, that’s right.”

“It’s your weekend, is it?” Connie asks.

Harry gives her a warning look, but nods, and she can’t help wondering what they’re talking about.

They finish their drinks and all leave together, saying goodnight to the others and making their way into the crisp night air, retracing their steps to Thames house together, she and Connie in front, Malcolm and Harry behind them, talking in low voices. Connie doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk, so the two of them are silent. She doesn’t mind. She loves taking in her surroundings and letting her mind wander, watching the people and admiring the buildings of London. She can’t quite believe that she’s here. She’s always longed to live in a big city – London, Paris, New York.

“Anyone need a lift?” Harry asks as they arrive at the entrance.

“Ruth and I are taking the tube,” Connie tells him.

“Right.” He smiles and turns to Malcolm. “Let me know in the morning,” he begins, but Connie interrupts him.

“Don’t you dare, Malcolm. He’s got the day off. Let him enjoy it.”

Harry rounds on her. “No one asked for your opinion, Connie,” he says. “I’m senior agent on this op and, if there’s something I need to know, my sodding day off doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to those little ones, Harry, and you well know it. Do the right thing by them for _once_ in your sorry life. Be a decent father.” And with that parting remark she turns and strides away, leaving Harry staring after her, his face a mask of control though his eyes are on fire with fury.

So great is her shock to find out Harry’s got children, that she barely recovers in time to remember that she’s taking the tube with Connie, hurriedly say goodnight, and catch up with her before she disappears round the corner.


	11. Chapter 11

_14 th September 1991, 3 pm_

_A park somewhere in London_

 

Connie had been right, of course. He should spend more time with his children, should be a better father for their sakes. He wants to, it’s just that he doesn’t exactly know how. He loves them both dearly, but translating that boundless love into something tangible, some action he can do to convey it is something that’s always eluded him. He tries to recall what his parents did to make him feel loved, but he honestly can’t remember. His mum used to read him stories at night and that’s something he did before, when he and Jane were still together – assuming he was home by six, of course, which admittedly wasn’t often. He still does read to them on the rare occasions they spend the night at his. But the rest of the time?

He's tried watching TV with them, but Postman Pat or some children's film or other isn't really his thing, and both of his children's disinterest in sport has confounded him. Board games are something he's never really got into, having spent most of his youth outdoors, even when it was pouring. Going to the park seems to be the only other thing they all enjoy doing, chasing them the only activity that allows for some connection.

His own father was a distant figure – he still is today – so nothing he learnt from him is likely to help with his children, and he just can’t seem to get into the mindset of a caregiver – remember all the mundane things: the foods Graham won’t eat, or to plan ahead for the weather, or recall what time bedtime is and stick to it, and all those other things that Jane has figured out and masterfully carries out to perfection. Why bother anyway? Jane’s got it all down to a fine art and the children adore her. Their luke-warm reception of him and long faces at the prospect of spending a weekend with him often make him wonder if they’d all not be better off, in the end, if they always stayed with their mother.

A tumble on the pavement and Graham’s cry of pain brings him back to the present as he hurries over to his son. “It’s alright, Graham,” he murmurs, crouching down beside him and resting an awkward hand on the boy's shoulder. When he was little, he'd pick him up, but he's seven years old already and embarrassed by that kind of attention. “Let’s have a look, eh?”

Graham turns his palms up and Harry’s surprised to see a cut on his right hand, which is rather deeper than he expected. A quick glance around them reveals a piece of glass hidden in the grass by the edge of the pavement. “Wankers,” he mutters, picking it up and inspecting it before looking for further pieces from what is clearly a broken bottle. He sees no others, so he turns back to Graham. “It’s alright, Son. It’s not deep, but I don’t have a plaster. Let’s go to the tea shop and see if they have a first aid kit there, alright?”

Graham just nods and wipes his eyes with the back of his other hand, so Harry helps him to his feet and looks about for his daughter. Alarmingly, she's nowhere to be seen.

“Cathy!” he calls, spinning around in a circle. “Catherine!”

_Shit! This can't be happening._

“Graham, did you see where your sister went?” he asks, still probing every direction with his gaze, his stomach tight with fear and the rush of adrenaline.

Graham points ahead of him, so Harry grasps his uninjured hand and hurries along the path, Graham reluctantly following. “You're hurting,” he protests, resisting and impeding their progress.

He stops, takes a deep breath, and crouches down to look at his son, his eyes so very much like his own as he stares back at him mutinously. “I'm sorry, Graham,” he says, doing his best to soften his attitude. “I know you're hurt and I know we need to fix you up with a plaster. I'm sorry I forgot to bring some with me.”

“You always forget,” he replies, eyes flashing.

“I know. I've let you down. Again.” He takes another deep breath. “I don't get a lot of practice at this sort of thing,” he tries to explain, “so I'm not as good as your mother. But I'm trying, Graham. I'm trying.”

Graham doesn't reply, but he thinks his son's frown has softened, so he presses on. “I need your help though, Son. I need you to be brave for me and I need you to put aside the pain in your hand and help me find your sister. She's lost and it's our job to find her and protect her. Alright? It’s what men do. Can you do that for me, Mate?”

He watches as his son takes in his words and lifts his chin, his chest expanding with determination. “Yes,” he says. “She went that way.” And he points to a row of bushes to their left.

Harry smiles at him and ruffles his hair, his heart full of pride. “That's my boy,” he says and together they set off in that direction, calling her name.

She's standing some way off from the bushes they emerge from, talking to a woman of small stature, but at the sound of him calling her name, she turns and comes running towards him, jumping into his arms. “I'm sorry, Dad,” she says as she clings to him. “Don’t be angry. I’m sorry. I ran away to hide and got mixed up and I couldn't find you again.”

He holds her, running his hand down her back, relief softening his heart and defusing his anger as he swallows the rebuke he was ready to make, breathing in the scent of her – his precious, little girl, all safe and sound. “It's alright, Cathy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against her hair. “I've got you now.”

He holds her for a moment more before crouching down and setting her on the ground again, turning to her brother. “Thanks, old sport,” he tells him, ruffling his hair with his hand and drawing him into a hug when he sees the boy smile and lean towards him. “You're a champ. I wouldn't have found her without you.”

She watches with relief as the lost, little girl runs to her father, smiling to see the reunion and giving them a moment of privacy before she walks over to introduce herself and hand back the toy bunny. But as she approaches the family, she can't help feeling that there's something familiar about the man, and a few steps further she gets the surprise of her life when she recognises Harry.

Her steps slow and her insides begin a familiar dance, flipping and churning at the sight of him and the gentleness with which he treats his children.

She stops a few paces from them, waiting to be noticed as she observes their interaction.

Catherine's the first to spy her, exclaiming, “Baggins,” and reaching for her toy.

Ruth smiles as she hands over the rabbit. “All safe and sound,” she replies and watches with some amusement as Harry whips round to face her at the sound of her voice. “Hello, Harry,” she adds, eyes twinkling at him.

“Ruth! What are you doing here?”

“I've been flat hunting,” she replies. “There was one in this area that I rather liked, so I thought I'd have a look at the neighbourhood. Do you live around here?”

He nods, suddenly rather tongue-tied. Despite his promise to leave her alone, he hasn't stopped wanting her. In fact, the wanting has only increased with each day he passes in her company, and running into her like this, unexpectedly, with his children to bear witness, has rather thrown him. “I do,” he says, then adds, “but I hope that doesn't diminish the attraction of the neighbourhood.”

She laughs. “Not at all,” she assures him and drops her gaze to Catherine. “Are these your children?”

“Yes. Sorry,” he says. “This is Catherine and Graham. Cathy, Graham, this is a friend of mine from work.”

“Ruth,” she says, smiling. “It's lovely to meet you both. And nice to meet you too, Baggins. I'm glad we found your dad, Catherine.” She nods rather shyly and clutches her bunny to her chest. Then Ruth turns to Graham who's patiently waiting to show her his hand.

“Look,” he says.

“Oh dear,” she replies, leaning in to see better. “That's quite an injury you've got there, Graham. I bet it hurts a lot. You're being very brave.”

He beams at her then says, “We're going to get a plaster. Do you want to come?”

“Graham,” Harry begins, feeling that he should intervene and let Ruth off the hook.

“I think I might have one in my bag somewhere,” she says and promptly starts rummaging in her handbag, pulling out an umbrella and a half-empty water bottle, muttering, “I know it's in here somewhere.”

“It's like Mary Poppins’ bag,” Graham says in awe, leaning in to get a better look.

Ruth laughs. “Not quite, Graham, but I do end up carrying an awful lot of- Aha!” she exclaims in triumph. “Found it.” And she pulls out a small, metal box that's white and has a red cross on it.

“Why's it got a cross on it?” Graham asks, moving closer still.

“Because it's for first aid, silly,” his sister replies with an air of superiority.

“That's right. It _is_ a first aid box,” Ruth smiles at her. “It's a very special first aid kit because it was my father’s and _he_ was a very good, homeopathic doctor.”

“What's a homofic doctor?” Graham asks, garbling the word a little.

“It means he practiced a special kind of medicine. Show me your hand,” she instructs, then seems to remember him, lifting her eyes to his and asking quickly, “Is this alright with you?”

“Of course,” he replies, flashing an easy grin. “You saved my life with that voodoo.”

She frowns and looks quite severe, just as he'd hoped she would, as she replies seriously, “Homeopathy is not voodoo, Harry.”

“What's voodoo?” Catherine asks over the sound of his chuckle.

“It's a bit like magic – nobody knows if it works,” Ruth replies without missing a beat as she gently takes Graham's hand in hers. “Homeopathy, on the other hand, is a legitimate branch of medicine. The royal family use it. Now, let's see here,” she says to Graham. “The first thing to do is make sure there's nothing in the cut.”

“Like what?” Catherine asks, her shyness having been replaced by her ever present curiosity.

“Well, this cut looks quite clean round the edges so it was probably something sharp that made it. Maybe a piece of glass? So we need to check there's no pieces of glass in there and no soil or bits of leaves or anything. Hold still a moment, Graham. I’m just going to use a wipe to wipe your hand clean since we don’t have soap and water.”

“Dad found some glass,” Graham says.

“Some git broke a bottle and didn't pick up all the pieces.”

“What's a git?” Catherine asks.

He sees Ruth's lips twitch at that, but she doesn't step in to save him from having to explain that one.

“You said it was wankers,” Graham pipes up, lifting puzzled eyes to his.

“What's a wanker?” Catherine asks.

Ruth starts laughing. “Okay, Graham,” she says, successfully distracting both his children, rescuing him yet again. “Your hand’s clean now and I don't see anything in there, but we're going to clean the cut all the same, just to make certain. I need you to be a brave boy now because it'll hurt a little.”

Graham frowns, not at all pleased to hear that. “How much?” he asks.

“Not as much as it hurt when you cut it, but it'll sting a bit.”

“Like a wasp?”

“Not as much.”

“Okay,” he replies, setting his jaw, his lips pursed in determination. “I'm ready.”

Ruth smiles and turns back to his hand, cleaning the wound with hydrogen peroxide, then adding a dab of calendula cream, and quickly covering it with a plaster. “That's it. All done. You're a very brave young man, Graham. Bet your dad is proud.” She turns her eyes on his and winks.

“Course I'm proud,” he says softly. “I'm always proud of both of you,” he tells his children, somehow Ruth’s presence and her gentle prodding unlocking the words he rarely speaks out loud to them though he feels them deeply.

They both beam at him as Ruth busies herself putting everything back in its box and the box in her handbag. When she stands, he says, “How about an ice-cream? Ruth, will you join us?”

The children cheer, but he thinks Ruth looks a little like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “Oh no. I couldn’t. I should get going. Lots to do today.”

“Go on,” he gently cajoles, giving her his most persuasive look. It melts most women’s resolve, but not hers, it would seem. Not yet. Still, there are other weapons in his arsenal and words are by far the most effective so far in persuading Ruth Evershed. “That’s twice you’ve saved me now. The least I can do is buy you an ice-cream.”

She smiles and drops her gaze in pleasure and embarrassment before sighing and nodding her assent. “Okay. Thanks.”

And so it is that they end up walking along to the tea shop, his children dancing around Ruth, peppering her with questions, his heart expanding at the sight, filling with a mixture of joy and hope, his body relaxing for the first time since custody visits began with his children. He would never admit this to anyone else, but being alone with his children causes him more stress than facing a whole group of armed terrorists. Perhaps it’s the lack of adrenaline in the situation, or the realisation that his deep love for his children gives them the capacity to wound him more deeply than any knife or bullet ever could.

“Baggins is a very unusual name for a rabbit,” Ruth says once they’ve all sat down at a table, the children licking their ice-cream cones, Harry sipping his coffee, she drinking tea and working her way through the slice of cake Harry had insisted he order for each of them.

“It’s from the Hobbit,” says Catherine and turns back to her ice-cream.

Ruth smiles. “You seem a little young to have read The Hobbit, Catherine.”

“Mum read it to me and I liked Baggins. It’s a funny name.”

She wonders where their mother is, but she daren’t ask. Connie had implied that Harry only gets the children for some weekends – “It’s your weekend, is it?” she’d said – which would mean that they’re divorced, most likely.

“Jane teaches English A levels,” he volunteers, causing her to lift her eyes to his. He has beautiful eyes, she can’t help thinking - not for the first time - especially when there’s a touch of emotion in them as there is now. Is it sorrow, regret? She can’t be certain.

“That explains it then,” she replies, smiling softly at him. “My dad read me the Lord of the Rings when I was six,” she confides. “I loved it.”

“The _actual_ book?” he asks, looking rather incredulous. “Not the children’s version?”

She laughs. “The actual book,” she confirms. “Not the children’s version.”

“Blimey, Ruth.” He seems a little awestruck. “I knew you were smart, but...” He whistles. “I’m feeling rather intimidated.”

That makes her laugh harder, then catching Catherine watching them with interest, she tells her, “Remember, Catherine, that it’s perfectly alright for a woman to be smarter than a man, no matter what anyone else tells you. Don’t ever pretend to be less intelligent to please a boy, alright?”

Catherine nods. “Alright,” she agrees solemnly.

“My friend Daisy’s smart,” Graham pipes up. “We do homework together, and we play hide and seek and chase too.”

“See? That’s the best way. Accept yourself and other people and use everyone’s talents. Everyone’s good at something. All together, we’re good at everything and there is nothing we can’t accomplish.”

“What’s accompish?” Graham asks.

“Accomplish means to get something done,” she explains. “And speaking of getting things done, I really should get going. I’ve got another flat to see. It was lovely to meet you, Catherine and Graham. I hope to see you again soon.” She turns to Harry. “Thank you for... this. The tea, I mean, and the company. It was nice. I’ll see you Monday.”

“My pleasure, Ruth. Good luck with the flat hunting,” he replies, smiling and getting up as she stands, the lessons in civility ingrained in him by his father demanding that he stand when a woman leaves the table. She seems flustered and he can’t help feeling pleased. He knows their attraction is mutual and he can’t help hoping that she’ll give into it soon and let him shag her senseless. She’s like a drug that’s got into his system, from which the only relief is more – more of it, of _her_ , more of her company, her smiles, her gorgeous eyes and musical laughter, and _all_ of her body, frequently.

“Bye, Ruth,” Catherine says.

She smiles. “Bye.” And she’s gone, leaving them to finish their treats without her.

“She’s nice,” Graham says as Harry resumes his seat.

“Yes,” he replies softly. “Yes, she is.”


	12. Chapter 12

_2 4th September 1991, 2 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

It happens quite by accident. She’s walking down the hall, gazing down at the papers in her hands, skimming through the information there, analysing and putting it together with the rest of what she’s learnt today, when she nears the corner and abruptly stops short. She’s not sure what makes her do it. Did she hear something? Is it some sixth sense?

Round the corner is the water-cooler and there are two distinct, female voices conversing in low tones. One she recognises as Jenna’s. The other, she has trouble placing – perhaps one of the admin people? Someone from C Section or the registry?

“How are things going with Harry?” she’s asking.

“Oh, fine. You know. It’s been hard with him getting injured like that.”

“Yeah. I can imagine. But at least he’s around now. You were miffed when he was in the field a few weeks back.”

“Yes, well, it’s a bit tricky to have a relationship with someone who’s not there!” Jenna replies, setting off a cascade of emotions inside her. Is it Harry who’s lied to her and everyone in the section, or is it Jenna who’s hiding the truth from her friend, making it look like there’s a lot more between them than there really is?

“Still. He’s safe. That’s what’s important. I was so worried when I heard what they did to him. What was it he was investigating again?” her friend asks innocently, setting off alarm bells in Ruth’s head. That’s a wholly inappropriate question to be asking about an active operation and this woman should know it.

“That group I told you about. Our would-be domestic terrorists.”

 _Christ!_ She’d already looked into Jenna and found no connection to the Bond group, but she hadn’t considered the possibility of something like this. What if this other woman, who’s not connected to the team, is the mole? One step removed from the action, so to speak, a link in the chain that almost cost Harry his life. She finds herself fuming at the realisation even as her heart begins to beat faster with excitement and triumph. She may have solved the puzzle after all.

“Oh, that’s right. James or something, wasn’t it?”

“Really, Sophie. It’s Bond, not James.”

Sophie laughs softly – a fake sound to Ruth’s ears. “Silly me. Still. I’m glad Harry’s alright. I heard that Coolidge gave the girl who saved him a job.”

“Pfff!” Jenna doesn’t sound pleased. “Idiot. She’s got no clue what she’s doing.”

“Elaine says she’s smart. She’s come down to the registry a few times and-”

“Didn’t you have something you need to retrieve for Mark from down there?” Jenna interrupts, her voice suddenly icy.

“Oh, right. Yes.” There’s a pause, then she adds, “I’m sorry, Jenna. Really. I didn’t think. Look, I hope Harry feels better soon. I was so relieved to hear he survived, you know? And so pleased for you.”

“Thanks,” Jenna replies, her voice a little warmer again.

“It must have been a hell of a blow to lose the Bond group though,” Sophie says, and it’s at that point that Ruth is certain. Quickly, so as not to give Jenna a chance to reply, she rounds the corner, head bent over her files, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, but very deliberately walking into Jenna, mainly because she’s the one standing in her path, but also – just a little bit – because it feels good to get her revenge. A few files fall from her hands as she clutches at the rest of them, stammering an apology. 

“Oi! Watch where you’re going!” she exclaims.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Jenna,” she says. “Are you alright?”

Jenna merely glares at her and brushes down her top,  taking a step back from her while Ruth, glances quickly at the other woman who is staring at the pair of them. She recognises her from the registry. She needs to  tell Mark or Harry  and fast. 

A nd as if summ on ed by  her thoughts alone, Harry  materializes beside her. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” she replies, a little breathlessly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going and bumped into Jenna. Sorry, Jenna,” she says again.

Jenna looks like she’s struggling to decide which is worse: refraining from throwing her apology back in her face, or looking like a vindictive bitch in front of Harry. “It’s alright,” she replies after a short silence. “No harm done.”

“Except to my papers,” Ruth mutters, crouching down and beginning to pick them up. Harry follows suit as she hoped he would – a gentleman by upbringing if not by profession. He begins with the papers furthest from her, but she does a good job of stalling by setting the folders on the floor and sorting the papers as she picks them up, giving her more time to seize the right moment. “Harry,” she murmurs softly when he moves nearer, doing her best to keep her lips from moving, “look busy, but listen.”

She feels him tense, but he does exactly as she asks, taking his time picking things up and handing them over or sorting them himself into the folders at her feet. Luckily, Sophie and Jenna have began conversing again, giving them cover for a quick communication.

“It’s her. The mole. Sophie from registry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ninety-eight percent. She was subtly fishing for information about the Bond group.”

“From Jenna?”

“Yes.”

“Christ! Did she get any?”

“No. I caused a diversion.” She glances surreptitiously at him and sees his lips twitch.

“Well done,” he praises softly. Then he’s silent for a moment and adds, “Alright. Go to Malcolm, then take it to Coolidge together. I’ll tell Mark. She fancies him, so he’s the one to keep her busy until Coolidge decides how we play this.”

“OK,” she replies and stands, the last few files and papers clutched in her hands. “Thanks, Harry,” she says more loudly. “I’ll sort the rest at my desk.” And with that, she turns, flashes Sophie and Jenna a smile and walks away. 

“Jenna,” Harry says, “I need you.” And with those few, simple words, her demeanour changes completely and she’s smiling and nodding her head, following Harry like a love sick puppy. It’s rather alarming how easily Harry’s able to manipulate her. Perhaps he did sleep with her after all, Ruth can’t help thinking, suddenly feeling a little nauseous. That could be her if she’s not too careful. 

S he watches  surreptitiously as they  move away from the cooler, sees Harry ask Jenna to wait while he strides over to Mark, murmurs something quietly, then strides away again, motioning for Jenna to follow and disappearing  from view .

Thankfully, Sophie has been dawdling as she makes her way to the pods, stopping to chat to Nancy, which gives Mark plenty of time to receive his instructions from Harry and carry them out, while she  snaps herself out of it and quickly  goes off to find Malcolm.  Her jealousy will have to wait. There are more important fish to fry at  present . 


	13. Chapter 13

 

_2 4th September 1991, 2:30 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

“Tell me exactly what you heard, Ruth,” Coolidge says, fingers steepled in front of his mouth, his gaze as intense as ever.

N ormally, it bothers her that he does that – call s her, and other women, by their first name s when all the men are addressed by their surnames. Now, however, she’s too excited to notice as she rapidly tells him of the conversation she overheard, the conclusions she reached, and her actions.

“You’ve confirmed this, Jones?” Coolidge asks next, turning to look at Malcolm.

“Yes, Sir,” he replies. “I have her personnel file here.” He takes a step forward and places it on the desk, turning it to face their boss as he flicks it open and finds the pertinent pages that he’s marked with sticky-notes, pointing out the relevant details. “It seems that Sophie Anne Mills and her brother spent a number of summers with their aunt, Deborah Sandra Smith, née Mills, who lived in the country.”

“And?” Coolidge is not a man known for his patience during briefings.

“Well, it would seem that Section X overlooked the fact that her first husband and father of her two boys was Irish and Catholic. He was never a partisan that we know of and he died when the boys were just four and five, but there’s no doubt he had strong views on Northern Ireland. Deborah remarried a local man named Daniel Smith and had the boys’ names changed, presumably to protect them.”

“This is all very interesting, Jones, but get to the bloody point!”

Malcolm swallows. “One of them, Patrick Smith, is now in Bond’s group.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Ruth watches with impatience as Coolidge stares straight ahead, brow slightly furrowed as he absently strokes his index fingers across his lips, his other ones still in a steeple, while they wait for his decision. “ We need proof,” he says eventually. 

“Or a confession,” she dares to suggest.

He turns to her, eyes intense as always. “ Yes. How soon until we have enough to wrap things up with the Bond group?” he asks Malcolm.

“We’re still waiting to find out the identity of their arms supplier. Once we have that, we’re good to go.”

He hums. “We might not have time for that now. What does Pearce say about this Smith character?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. He’s with Jenna.”

Coolidge’s eyes narrow. “Stupid girl,” he says and Ruth has a feeling that he’d have called her something a lot worse if she hadn’t been present. “Right,” he says suddenly in a decisive tone, lowering his hands to the table. “We’ll forget about Miss Wood for the moment. Bring me Pearce and Adams.”

“What about Sophie Mills?” Malcolm asks.

“I can watch her,” Ruth offers quickly and tries not to blush when their gazes turn to her. “I can go down to the registry for a bit and make sure she doesn’t leave or ring anyone.”

Coolidge looks skeptical, but Malcolm seems keen on the idea. “It could work, Sir,” he says. “We only need a few minutes and she’s going to begin to get suspicious if we find excuses for detaining her on the Grid for too long.”

“Fine,” he agrees. “But be careful, Ruth. It is imperative that she not get wind of what’s going on. You’re to observe and report back if anything strikes you as odd, but do _not_ try to approach or interrogate her. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Good. Then what are you both waiting for?” And with that abrupt dismissal they both hurry out of the room.

 

 

_2: 45 pm_

 

“Patrick Smith,” Coolidge says without preamble.

“Is that the connection?” Harry asks, surprised.

“Yes. A cousin of Miss Mills’s.”

“Right. Shady character,” Harry responds after thinking hard for a moment. “Closed off. Rather a cold fish if you ask me.”

“So Sophie’s hopes of turning him?”

“Entirely unfounded in my opinion. He’s not part of leadership. Bond has two mates he’s known for years for that, and clearly, he doesn’t trust outsiders. Not that I blame him. I wouldn’t trust Partick Smith further than I can throw him. But he’s committed. He really believes the rhetoric.”

“Adams? Anything to add?”

He shakes his head. “How do we proceed, Sir?”

“We can’t risk losing the Bond group. I’d like to know if Miss Mills has plans to talk to Smith today or tomorrow before we take her in, or the whole thing could blow up in our faces. We still need the suppliers. It’s a delicate balance.”

“And Jenna?”

Coolidge makes a face. “What happened between the two of you, Pearce?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

Coolidge just stares at him.

He sighs. “We were drunk. We ended up snogging for a bit, but that’s as far as it went, Sir. I swear it.” He stares back at Coolidge, holding his gaze and willing him to believe him. It really is the truth and the extent of his non-existent relationship with Jenna. No one needs to know that he’d been desperate to fuck her, had already seduced her with promises, and she was hanging on his every word, until they were interrupted by Connie, who’d shooed the younger officer away and given him a good telling to about letting his cock do all of his thinking for him.

“It’s got to stop, Pearce,” Coolidge replies. “As it turns out, she’s not Section D material, but if you continue as you are, we’re going to lose someone valuable to the Section. You have a bright future in the Service. Don’t bugger it up for a bit of skirt. Self-control, self-denial are the things that keep us together in this job. Master them, Pearce, and you could be sitting in my chair in a few years.”

“Yes, Sir,” he replies, stung and suitably embarrassed by this dressing down in front of Mark and Malcolm, but simultaneously rather pleased at the praise. He rather hopes he’s got a good many years left in him yet as a field agent, but it’s good to know Coolidge sees potential in him as a leader behind a desk too.

“We deal with Miss Woods later, but shut down all unnecessary channels until we wrap this up. It’s imperative there are no more leaks.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mark replies.

“Adams, see what you can get out of Sophie Mills tonight. Drinks might be in order.”

Mark nods.

“Malcolm, the moment we have the information we need-”

“I’ll tell you, Sir.”

Coolidge nods and turns back to Harry. “Pearce, how’s the leg?”

“In perfect working order.”

“Good. You’ll need it. You’re to lead the assault on their headquarters. Have several teams on standby to round up any members not present when we go in. You and Jones work out the details and bring me the plan for approval.”

“Yes, Sir. Now, Sir?”

“Yesterday would have been better, Jones, but now will just have to do. Let’s nail these bastards with a minimum of fuss, shall we?”

“Yes, Sir,” Adam and Malcolm chorus before they all leave the room.


	14. Chapter 14

_24th September 1991, _3:00 pm__

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

She knows Coolidge gave her specific orders _not_ to make contact, but riding in the lift with someone you’ve almost bumped into without saying anything seems rude, especially when you’ve made eye-contact and have smiled at each other, so she finds herself saying, “Hi. I’m Ruth, by the way.”

“Sophie,” she replies, returning her smile.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I get so engrossed in reading sometimes that I don’t look where I’m going.”

Sophie chuckles.

“Not a good habit really, particularly when you’re new.” She makes a face.

Sophie smiles. “You’re the one who saved Harry Pearce, aren’t you?”

She blushes and looks down. “Guilty, I’m afraid.”

“Were they really about to execute him?”

“Yes.” She thinks Sophie looks genuinely concerned about that and rather uncomfortable.

“You must be very brave,” she says.

She shakes her head. “Not really. Anyone would have done the same. It’s harder than you think to stand by and do nothing when someone’s life is in danger.”

There’s silence for a moment, then Sophie says, “And now you work for the fabulous Counter Terrorism Department.”

She thinks she can detect a hint of jealousy in her tone of voice. “I guess they needed an analyst and I’d already passed the vetting. I was going to work for GCHQ.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“I’m glad to be here though. I love it. It feels like I’m really part of the action, you know?”

“I can imagine. I can’t say I envy you though – all that pressure and responsibility. Registry is about as close to action as I want to get.”

“Yeah. I guess I wouldn’t want to be in the field either. I’m just a junior analyst though. Malcolm’s the one with all the pressure.”

Sophie smiles and nods, and they step out of the lift together.

“I’ve always wanted to move to London,” she confesses. She knows she’s taking a risk in continuing their conversation, but she can’t seem to help herself. Her heart is pumping heard with excitement at the prospect of ferreting out the crucial bit of information that cracks it all wide open for them.

“Where are you from?”

“Exeter. You?”

Sophie gives her a look.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She drops her gaze and looks away, fearing she’s buggered it all up. “It’s just...” She hesitates.

“Just what?” Sophie sounds interested.

“Well, I know you’re friends with Jenna, so you must know that there seems to be some... misunderstanding about Harry...” She glances at Sophie’s face. She seems to be listening avidly. Clearly she loves a bit of gossip.

“Misunderstanding?”

“It’s all because I saved his life, you see, but I really have no interest in dating him, but everyone seems to think that I have, or that I’ll develop one just because he’s said a few kind words to me and has been supportive of my work, but I don’t date men like him and I’m not about to start now. No one seems to want to listen to me when I tell them that though and Jenna hates me, and everyone else is on her side, so I’ve not really had a chance to talk to many people or make many friends, which means the only people I talk to are Malcolm and Harry and Mark and Connie, which only makes people think worse of me, and I just can’t win.” She sighs and looks at Sophie again. “Sorry,” she adds. “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I just wanted to explain why I may appear to be trying too hard. But I’ll shut up now and go off and find those files I came down here for.”

“Oh,” Sophie says. “Right. I mean, I could help if you like? With the files. To find them.”

“Oh! Would you? You lot keep things so organised down here, but I’m still learning the ropes and it’s not as easy as I’m sure _you_ find it,” she replies and is pleased to see the blush of pleasure on Sophie’s cheeks.

“Well. We try.” She smiles. “Come on over to my station and let’s see what we can find.”

Ruth follows her over, nodding at a couple of people she recognises from her previous trips down here with Malcolm. She has a few files in mind that she needs for another operation, but she decides that she daren’t try her hand at fishing for information again. She’s just going to follow orders and keep an eye on Sophie until back up arrives.

 

 

_3:30pm_

 

Back up arrives in the form of Mark, who strides confidently over to Sophie’s station and smiles at them both, before promptly telling Ruth that Malcolm is looking for her, which she takes as a her cue to leave. She thanks Sophie for her help, gathers up the folders they’ve found and heads upstairs, leaving Mark perched on the end of Sophie’s desk, flirting with her.

It’s impressive really how believable it is, and it gives her new insight into the way the field agents use their natural personality to their advantage in such situations – getting information from someone they already know without the benefit of a legend. Mark is a friendly bloke, who’s considerate and respectful, observant and he remembers details. Harry is totally different – straightforward, intense, witty, disarming – but they both can use their strengths to seduce, if called for, each in their own unique way, a way that seems natural and genuine. It’s totally believable that Mark might have had a secret interest in Sophie all along and is only just acting on it now, just as it would be perfectly believable for Harry to suddenly develop an interest in her and want to take her to bed.

As she rides the lift up, she wonders if she’d be able to do something like that herself, if called for, doubting how believable she’d be when she has trouble enough flirting under the best of circumstances. Perhaps though it would be easier than she thinks. Unless she was trying to seduce someone like Malcolm, there aren’t a lot of men she’s met who stop to think too much about _why_ a woman might suddenly want them. In her experience, they just count their lucky stars and are all too keen to get laid.

She shakes her head free of these thoughts quickly and steps out of the lift and through the pods, heading for her desk and dumping the heavy files onto its already messy surface.

“Anything?” Harry asks, making her jump.

“Jesus!” Her hand flies to her chest as she whips round to face him.

He chuckles, eyes alight with mischief. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all.

The urge to knee him in the nuts is overpowering, as is the urge to kiss him. Never before has she met a man that affects her so much, that fills her with such conflicting emotions. “No,” she replies, choosing to just ignore the undercurrent between them.

“Pity.” He turns his body away, then stops, pausing before smiling mischievously and leaning towards her as he adds, “Though, I must say, I’m rather looking forward to breaking her.”

“Breaking her?” she asks, sounding and feeling alarmed. There’s a dangerous edge to Harry that makes her feel a little uneasy on Sophie’s behalf. She’s convinced Sophie never meant to harm anyone by helping the Bond group. She was just trying to save someone she loves.

“Mark and I are to have the pleasure of interrogating her later.”

“How do you mean?”

“Good cop, bad cop routine for starters, then we’ll play it by ear,” he explains with a smile, then turns and walks away, and it’s some moments before she realises she’s staring after him and quickly turns back to her desk.

“Malcolm,” she mutters to herself, refocusing her attention on her own tasks. She’s finding Harry Pearce more and more fascinating by the day and she really needs to put a stop to it. His personality seems to be laced with just the right amount of dedication, passion, unpredictability, and compassion to hold her interest, and she’s beginning to worry that, if she’s not too careful, her heart will get involved soon and she's convinced that that can’t end well for either of them.


	15. Chapter 15

_24th September 1991, 8 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

“Do you know what they did to me?” Harry demands, his face inches from hers, eyes intense, boring into her.

“Don’t. Please don’t.” Sophie Mills recoils, turning her head and leaning away from him, her eyes pleading with Mark. “Please.”

Mark remains unmoved though his eyes are soft and full of regret.

Harry grips her chin with one hand, forcing her head round to face him. “Have you ever felt the cold steel of a gun against your forehead? Have you been hit so hard in the face that you think your head might explode?”

She whimpers and shakes her head, eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t mean for them to hurt you.”

“What did you think they were going to do with me when you sold me out?” he asks so quietly that the microphones in the room have trouble picking up his words and it’s only through lip reading that Ruth is able to be certain of what he’s saying. She’s watching the interrogation with Malcolm and Coolidge through the one way mirror lining the side of the room, utterly enthralled by the masterful way Harry and Mark are carrying it out, each playing their part to perfection. The menace in Harry is so real that it troubles her. Is it all an act or is this darkness part of him?

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell them who you were. I told Patrick that MI-5 was watching them. I didn’t intend... I just wanted him to get out before it was too late.”

Harry releases his grip and takes a step back in disgust, turning towards Mark and walking past the table towards the mirror concealing her and the others, seamlessly passing the buck to his colleague, who leans forward and addresses Sophie in a gentle voice. “I believe you,” he says. “I do.” And Sophie bursts into tears, her confession coming pouring out of her lips in between her sobs.

“I was distraught when I heard what they did and so relieved that Ruth saved him. I didn’t intend anything bad to happen. I just wanted Patrick to come home. Aunt Debbie is so worried and Declan is starting to talk like Pat, and I’m so scared both of them will be killed and then Marty will be beside himself and there’s not telling what he’ll do and he was begging me to do _something_ and all I could think was to scare him out of there, but it didn’t work and the more I talked to Pat, the more he seemed to be using me for information, and when I realised and refused to give him any more, Pat threatened to expose me so I’d lose my job.” She takes a deep breath and looks at Mark. “I can’t lose my job, Mark. Mum and Dad depend on the income and I love my job.”

“What did you do when Patrick threatened to expose you?”

“Nothing. It was last week. I told him I’d try to find out what he wanted, but I’ve been avoiding him. Yesterday, though, he came round to my place and talked to Mum and Dad. He... He never used to be like this.” She starts crying again and Ruth can’t help feeling sorry for her. Sophie’s put herself in an impossible position and it serves to highlight for her just how important integrity is, how paramount it is to always stick to the high moral ground and never give into temptation or make exceptions for _anyone_ , however dearly you might love them.

Mark reaches into his pocket and produces a packet of tissues that he hands to her.

“Thank you,” she whispers brokenly and proceeds to attempt to pull herself together.

“There’s nothing you can do to save Patrick now and, I’m afraid, there’s going to have to be a review, Sophie,” he says softly, and it’s quite heartbreaking to see the devastation on Sophie’s face. “You know that, right?”

She nods.

“Anything you do to help us now will count in your favour. Think back for a moment. What information do you have that can help us?”

Sophie takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes again. “Pat didn’t tell me much. They’re meeting somewhere in Staffordshire. He didn’t say where exactly. The target's in Birmingham and it’ll happen soon. That’s what he said last night. He said they’re waiting on one thing and they hope to have it sorted by the end of the week. He wanted information quickly. He said he’d come round again tonight and I’d better have something for him.”

At that, Harry and Mark exchange a glance, as do Malcolm and Coolidge.

“She could wear a wire,” Malcolm says.

Coolidge nods. “Get it sorted.”

As Malcolm leaves the observation room, in the interrogation room, Mark is saying, “You know what we must ask you to do, Sophie, don’t you?”

“You want me to betray him.” She looks miserable.

“We want you to help save innocent lives,” Harry interjects forcefully, the contempt in his voice all too evident.

Mark gives him a warning look as Sophie crumbles. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“This is bigger than Patrick. It’s bigger than you or I or your aunt, Debbie,” Mark says softly.

She nods. “What do you want me to do?”

“Go home as normal, talk to Partick,” Mark explains. “We’ll give you something to pass onto him, but you’ll need to give it up with reluctance. He mustn’t suspect anything.”

“Okay, but he might be suspicious anyway. I’m very late home already.”

“Mark will take you home,” Harry interjects. “He’ll be your new boyfriend.”

“But Pat will see him!” Sophie looks alarmed at that.

“That’s the idea. You were out with him. He drops you off, says goodnight, and goes off on his merry way. You look suitably pleased and happy until you spy your cousin. Problem with being late home solved.”

“Oh.” Sophie looks down, embarrassed yet apparently pleased, judging from the blush gracing her cheeks.

“You’ll be wearing a wire,” Mark adds, “and there’ll be a team nearby to record your conversation and protect you if need be.”

Sophie’s face turns serious and rather pale. “Okay.”

“You’ll do brilliantly,” Mark reassures her, giving her his most encouraging smile.

“I hope so,” she replies, looking more hopeful. “I really never meant to hurt anyone.”

Ruth sees Harry’s eyes flash, but he wisely holds his tongue. She can’t blame him. How exactly did Sophie think she’d not be hurting anyone by helping a terrorist group? It’s amazing really how people manage to convince themselves that they’re doing the right thing under all sorts of circumstances.

 

_9pm_

 

“You alright?” she asks him, a little concerned by the sullen look on his face.

“I’m fine.” No smile.

“You don’t look fine.” She’s been helping Malcolm get everything ready, fascinated by how it all works. This is her first experience of the preparation that goes into a field operation and she’s loving it for the most part, though she’s not a big fan of the worry that’s taken up residence in her gut, over the success of the op and especially Harry and Mark’s safety. 

“Remember, Harry,” Malcolm interrupts, offering Harry a gun but without relinquishing his grip on it until Harry looks up and meets his gaze. “You’re to stay in the van unless things go terribly pear-shaped. He’s seen your face. He knows who you are.”

“I know, Malcolm,” Harry replies irritably, slipping the gun into the holster slung across his chest. 

For a moment, she gets distracted by the  broadness of it, the strength she knows is hidden below the tight, black, polo neck he’s wearing, the sexiness that, even now, in the middle of something  _this_ important, is making her insides churn with desire. 

“Ruth?” His warm, deep voice brings her back to reality and she blinks.

“Sorry?”

He smiles softly at her. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

_ Christ!  _ Is she  _ that _ obvious? 

“I’m not,” she says quickly. “I know you will. You’ll be in the van. It’s Mark I’m worried about.”

“That’s why I’ll be the one in the van,” Harry replies, his face turning serious. “I’m not losing anyone to these bastards.”

S he watches him go, even more worried than before, desperately scared for his safety, her mind awash with images of how they met, her  rising  anxiety making her breathing rugged.  What if she never sees him again?

“He’ll be fine,” Malcolm reassures her, pausing by her side. “He’s a crack agent – level headed, calculating, decisive, ruthless – and he’ll have back up this time. This is nothing like when he was undercover.”

She nods and turns to him, offering him a grateful smile as her breathing eases a little. “I want to stay  u ntil it’s over. I won’t be able to stand the suspense if I go home now.”

Malcolm smiles his crooked smile. “I’ll have a word with Coolidge.”


	16. Chapter 16

_25 th September 1991, 1 pm_

_140 Gower Street, London_

 

It _had_ all gone smoothly, in the end – a textbook operation. Sophie had been convincing and Harry hadn’t had to intervene to protect anyone. She’s now back in their interrogation rooms, Mark having picked her up again first thing in the morning. Thankfully, the hope of keeping her job is making her cooperate. Everything needs to appear normal for the next couple of days, with Sophie going to work as normal, though they, obviously, can’t allow her access to any important information any longer. Her home has been put under full surveillance with wire taps and everything, and Coolidge has arranged for a brief secondment to their section, so no one is any the wiser about what’s going on.

As for Jenna, Harry had been quite masterful in plotting his revenge. And, whereas Ruth has felt a little sorry for Sophie throughout all this, she’d had no sympathy for Jenna whatsoever as she’d watched Harry expose her.

Someone very cleaver at MI-5 had probably foreseen a situation just like this one and, when the interrogation rooms had been built, one of them had been designed with an observation room to monitor the observation rooms on either side of it. Coolidge and Malcolm had occupied this room before Harry had collected Jenna.

Ruth had only been there by accident, and in many ways, she’d really wished that she hadn’t witnessed any of it. Malcolm had rung her, asking for a file that he’d left with her earlier, so she’d taken it down to him, hurrying along the corridor – which, frankly, gave her the creeps with its weird, disorienting lighting – quickly rounding the corner, and only narrowly avoiding a collision with a lip locked Harry and Jenna. In fact, they’d been engaged in a full on snog with hands grasping and wandering, Harry’s strong body pinning her against the wall, his back exposed where Jenna had untucked and lifted his shirt.

Ruth had gasped, blushed, and stammered an apology, ducking her head and hurrying past them, desperately trying to push away the image of them together, Jenna’s triumphant giggle only making her feel worse. She was sure she could feel Harry’s gaze on her back as she hurried away, clutching the file.

“Harry?” Jenna’s voice had sounded a little annoyed as she’d turned another corner in the corridor and stopped, leaning heavily against the wall, desperately trying to recover her equilibrium, desperately trying not to cry.

_Bloody Harry sodding Pearce!_

“You just said you only have eyes for me, yet you’re still staring after _her_!”

Her heart had leapt to hear that and her stomach had plummeted as everything clicked into place and she’d realised that she’s in love with him. Harry Pearce. Of all the people she could have fallen for, why did it have to be him?

“Sorry.” Harry’s low voice – such a sexy voice too – reached her ears. “I was thinking. This isn’t very professional, Jenna. I’m sorry. I should never have suggested with do this here. It could really ruin your reputation.”

“Sod professionalism and sod my reputation.” Jenna’s voice sounded happier. “Kiss me some more.”

“Later. Come on. I have something to show you.”

And that’s when Ruth had realised that they’d began moving again, their footsteps echoing along the corridor towards her! Quickly and stealthily, she’d hurried along, thankfully reaching the concealed door to the observation mainframe – as Malcolm had called it when he’d first given her a tour of the interrogation area – and disappearing into it before they’d rounded the corner to see her. It wouldn’t do for Jenna to know this room wasn’t empty. Ruth had had a brief moment of worry that Jenna might have enough sense to wonder where she’d got to, but thankfully, the corridor outside is continuous, running round the entire base of the building in a long rectangle with rooms branching off on either side, and Jenna would have known that, if Ruth followed the corridor all the way round, she’d find herself at the lifts again.

“Ah, Ruth. Good,” Coolidge had said without turning to look at her.

Malcolm had smiled his crooked smile and taken the folder she’d held out to him with a quiet thank you.

“Take a seat,” Coolidge had invited. “Can’t risk them seeing you leaving.”

The room was narrow and long, barely wide enough to accommodate the desk with the computers and recording equipment, some chairs, and leave enough space to walk through behind them. There were no windows in here or mirrors. In fact, it resembled a closet more than anything else, and Ruth had briefly wondered if that’s what had been its original purpose, when she’d first seen it. Malcolm hadn’t known, but he’d confided that there used to be one-way mirrors installed in here too, to watch the occupants of the observation rooms on either side, but as recording equipment had become more sophisticated over time, they’d given up on the mirrors as being too obvious and opted for pinpoint cameras instead. This had allowed them to observe all the interrogation rooms and observation rooms in the building, so it was much more advantageous all around.

There were cameras everywhere down here and they could clearly see Harry and Jenna’s progress down the corridor she’d just left towards the observation room beside theirs, and it was with much alarm and renewed anxiety that she’d realised Coolidge and Malcolm must have witnessed her brief moment of weakness in the corridor just now. How much did they glean from her sudden lack of composure? The thought of everyone knowing how she feels about Harry had made her feel sick, and if she’d been anywhere else, she would have bolted. As things stood, however, there was nowhere to go until Harry and Jenna had entered the room next door. Indeed, the moment they did, she’d reached for the door-handle, but Coolidge had stopped her.

“Not yet,” he’d said, again without turning to face her. Did the man have eyes on the back of his head? “In fact, stay. This might prove instructive.”

And that was that. She couldn’t very well leave now, so she’d taken a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and focused on the camera feeds, taking a seat on the other side of Malcolm and slipping on the headphones he held out to her.

“But that’s Sophie!” Jenna was saying, staring through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room beyond. “Harry there must be some mistake. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. You can’t think that-”

“She’s confessed.”

“Confessed to what?”

“Being a mole. Passing on information to terrorists.”

“Terrorists? What terrorists?”

It had been quite satisfying to see and hear the fear begin to creep into Jenna’s voice.

“The Bond group.”

Harry was no longer smiling. In fact, he looked much the same as he’d done the other day when he’d interrogated Sophie – intense, unyielding, angry, yet totally, dangerously in control.

“Harry, I...” Jenna had tried to reach out and touch his arm, but he’d knocked her hand out of the air with such speed, she hadn’t seen it coming. It reminded Ruth of when she’d first met him – the way the speed and agility of his movements had impressed her then.

“ _Her,_ I understand. She was doing it for family. _You,_ though! What did you get out of it, Jenna?” Again his voice had turned soft and menacing, making Jenna recoil a little.

“You think I _helped_ her?!”

“I know you did.”

“You know no such thing. You can’t prove it.” Jenna’s voice was getting panicky as she took a few steps back from him.

“Sophie told us, Jenna.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. She made it up. It’s not true.”

“And Ruth overheard your conversation by the cooler the other day.” Harry had delivered the blow with grim satisfaction.

“Oh, so your _girlfriend’s_ backing you up. What a surprise! She just wants to get even with me for-”

“Not everyone is as shallow as you, Jenna. Nor are they as petty. Ruth Evershed has proved herself to be a far better agent that you will every be – a stronger character, a better person.”

“Please! You’re just saying that because you want her.”

If the best line of defence is offence, Jenna was doing well, but Ruth couldn’t tell if what she was saying was affecting Harry.

“I do want her,” he’d replied, making Ruth’s jaw slacken in shock and her cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment. “I want her on my team. I want her on my side. Hiring Ruth was the best decision Coolidge has ever made. _You_ might well be his worst one.”

That had shut Jenna up nicely and, while she was on the back foot, Harry had continued. “She approached two armed men, without regard for her own safety, to save me. And what did you do, Jenna? You thoughtlessly talked about an active operation with someone without clearance. _You_ almost got me killed! With friends like you, who needs enemies?”

Jenna’s face only hardened as he talked, displaying no emotion. Ruth was sure she’d have broken down in tears herself, but then she’s not a trained field agent.

“You’re no longer denying it, I see,” Harry had added after a moment.

“What’s the point? You’re determined to pin it all on me anyway.”

“Suit yourself. It might go better for you if you admitted your mistake though and showed some remorse. You might yet be able to salvage your career.”

Jenna had laughed. “I know you, Harry. There’s no way you’d let that happen. You don’t like that I almost had you, and you’ll make me pay, so you can feel manly again.”

This time, Ruth’s jaw had dropped in shock. Beside her, Malcolm had gasped, and Coolidge had raised an eyebrow.

Harry’s nostrils had flared. “Had me?” His voice was dangerously low again.

“If Connie hadn’t stopped you, you’d be wrapped around my little finger now and we both know it.”

His eyes had narrowed. “Hardly.”

“There are many ways to manipulate a man, Harry. His cock is one of them. Guilt is another. You’d have felt so guilty for using a junior officer, you’d have done anything I asked you to afterwards.”

Ruth had raised her eyebrows in surprise and Malcolm had whistled.

“Bloody woman,” Coolidge had fumed, for a moment forgetting she was present. “I knew she had potential.”

“Hardly potential, Sir,” Malcolm had replied, frowning at his superior. “She has the moral back-bone of a jelly-fish.”

Coolidge hadn’t responded, but Ruth had had the feeling that he was plotting something, the gears of his brilliant mind turning at lightning speed. Somehow, she knew that Jenna wasn’t going to be dismissed from the service. She rather thought they’d find a different place for her – black ops perhaps – train her for a different type of operation, one requiring the moral back-bone of a jelly-fish.

“You’re finished, Jenna,” Harry had responded flatly, bringing their attentions back to the occupants of the room.

“Perhaps,” she’d replied somewhat enigmatically. “Shame about us though. I’d have enjoyed shagging you.”

Ruth’s stomach had threatened to revolt at that.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” he’d replied, his face still a mask of control.

“I bet you have. You’re too good, Harry, too loyal. Watch out for that. It makes it far too easy to manipulate you.” His eyes had narrowed. “What? I like you and, despite what you might think, I’m one of the good guys.”

“You planned this whole thing?”

“Of course not. I’m just making the best of a bad situation.”

“You didn’t intend to cause my death then?”

“Hardly. I intended to shag you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re passionate and you kiss _really_ well. You must be a good lay. I was looking forward to multiple orgasms.”

“And the passing on of information to Sophie?”

“An accident. I’m not very professional, remember?” She’d winked at him, causing Ruth to want to storm in and punch her lights out.

Harry had pursed his lips. “Well, you might be telling the truth, Jenna, but then again you might be lying. I don’t know and, frankly, I don’t care. You’ve proved yourself unworthy of my trust, or a place in Section D.”

“Funny, but last time I checked, you weren’t Head of this section.”

Harry had smiled. “Give it time, Jenna. Give it time.” Ruth had glanced at Coolidge at that to see him quietly smiling, clearly pleased to hear Harry say that. Had he singled Harry out already to succeed him? Ruth hadn’t considered Harry as a Section Head before, but in an odd kind of way, she’d found herself thinking he’d be well suited to the job provided he could cope with the politicians. But Harry was speaking again, so she’d stopped her mind wondering and focused on what he was saying. “Do you really think bringing you down here was my own initiative, Jenna?”

Jenna had visibly faltered at that, making Harry laugh.

“You may be making the best of a bad situation, but I was born ready to deal with traitors like you. You might weasel your way out of this one now, but remember – one day I’ll be the one in charge here and there will be hell to pay for people like you when the time comes.” And as if on cue, Mark had entered the room putting an end to their tête-a-tête and almost making Ruth jump, so engrossed had she become in Harry’s speech that she hadn’t noticed him make his way down the hallway. “Take her away,” Harry had said. “We’re done here.” And with that parting remark, he’s swept out of the room, his strong strides echoing along the corridor as Ruth watched him walk away, his face grim and determined. 

Coolidge had clapped his hands and grinned, making her jump and turn to look at him. “Excellent,” he’d said before getting up and striding from the room, leaving her alone with Malcolm.

“Excellent?” she’d echoed, turning to him. 

Malcolm had smiled. “He’s pleased with Harry. He’s been trying to get him to consider moving behind a desk for ages now. This is the first time Harry’s shown any inclination of wanting to do that.”

“But...” she’d tailed off, frowning in confusion.

“There’s a silver lining to everything, I suppose,” Malcolm had replied sagely, turning back to the computer.

She hadn’t stayed long after that, remaining just long enough to see Mark strip Jenna of her security cards and personal effects in another interrogation room, leaving her to stew in her own juice while she waited for Coolidge to decide what to do with her.

Back upstairs, she’d immersed herself in other work, pushing aside all thoughts of Harry and Jenna and Sophie and the emotional quagmire she now found herself immersed in. And she’d succeeded quite nicely until her stomach had began to rumble as lunch time approached and she finds herself unable to ignore it any longer. She could use a break for a few minutes really, both mentally and physically, though emotionally she rather thinks she needs more of a vacation. She’s got an awful lot to sort through in that department and she’s dreading the moment she goes home and has to address some part of it.

She gets up and stretches, looking for someone to share her lunch break with, but finding none of her friends in the immediate vicinity. Judy, when asked, tells her she hasn’t seen Malcolm and that Connie and Nancy both left earlier for their lunch break. Resigned to eating by herself then, she grabs her coat and bag and leaves the building.

Her feet carry her to the river and along  its banks , enjoying the crisp air and the invigorating walk, thinking this is just what she needed  to clear  away  the cobwebs. She’s just about decided that everything will be fine, when she spies Harry leaning against the low wall up ahead, quietly contemplating the river. 

Her first instinct is to turn away, but inexplicably she finds herself doing just the opposite,  her feet carrying her over to him, stopping a few feet away from him,  suddenly indecisive. Just as she’s about to turn around and leave, however, he turns his head and catches her eye, giving her a small smile. She can’t leave now, so she draws closer, turning to lean against the wall beside him, leaving a respectable distance of about a yard between them. 

“You okay?” she asks him. She seems to be asking him that a lot lately.

“Yes.” He doesn’t sound okay. 

Ruth swallows. “I’m sorry she betrayed you, Harry. You liked her. That must make it extra hard for you.” The innuendo in the sentence doesn’t hit her until after the words have escaped her lips and she has to turn quickly to look across the water, silently kicking herself and trying not to blush, desperately hoping he hasn’t noticed.

“It is what it is. I’ll get over it.” His jaw is set, his face closed off, when she glances at him.

“Right.”

“For the record, I wouldn’t say I liked her all that much.”

She frowns. “Oh.  Sorry,  I thought...”

“Oh, I wanted to bed her. She’s right about that. But liking has nothing to do with it.”

She stares at him, wondering why he’s telling her these things and if there’s a hidden message for her in there somewhere.

“Right,” she says again, looking across the water.

“You’re very wise to stay away from me, Ruth,” he murmurs softly, and when she turns to look, he’s rubbing his face with his hands as he leans against the wall beside her, an air of defeat emanating from him.

“I’m not staying away from you,” she finds herself saying. “I like you. Like she said, you’re good and you’re loyal, and that’s important.”

He’s turned to look at her, as she speaks, his features neutral, giving nothing away, and yet, there’s some emotion in his eyes that he’s keeping a tight lid on, which she can’t quite identify.

“You’ve known me all of three weeks, Ruth,” he points out softly, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Well,” she turns away, blushing, “you made a strong impression.”

He doesn’t say anything more, just continues to gaze at her as she stares out across the Thames.

“When I called out to that man, I didn’t give myself much time to think. It was pure instinct. But then afterwards, when you... took him down so quickly and efficiently, and I was hiding away – bloody terrified, actually – I started to wonder if I’d done the right thing. If I’d helped the right person.” She looks at him to find him keenly watching her. “Do you know how I knew I had?”

“No.”

“You yelled at me to get down when the gun went off. You cared about my safety.”

He smiles at her. “Even guardian angels need the occasional reminder to stay safe,” he teases.

She chuckles. “Yes, we do.”

A contented kind of silence settles between them for a few moments as they each turn to gaze across the water. She feels like she could stay like this forever.

“How’s your flat hunting going?” he asks after a little while. 

She makes a face. “Alright. It’s time consuming, but I’m sure I’ll find something eventually.”

“The one close to mine didn’t work out?”

“No.”

“I hope it wasn’t because-”

“Of course not,” she says quickly. “It turned out to be quite noisy at night. That’s all.”

He smiles. “You went back at night to check it out again?”

“Well, yes. I’m mainly going to be needing it at night, so it makes sense to see what it’s like then. I thought everyone did that.”

His gaze softens, taking on a honeyed hue, his lips smiling fondly. “I don’t and I very much doubt that anyone else does either. I suspect it’s only people with brilliant minds like yours who are  _that_ sensible in their flat hunting.”

She blushes and looks away quickly, feeling self-conscious.  Before she can figure out how to respond, however, her stomach rumbles loudly, causing Harry to chuckle. “Still hungry?” he asks. 

“Haven’t had lunch yet,” she confesses.

“Neither have I,” he admits with a smile. “Where would you like to eat?”

She hesitates and watches as he falters. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to presume. It’s fine if-”

“No, I’d like you to join me,” she says quickly, fighting the urge to kiss him. He’s so adorable when he’s uncertain of where he stands and it happens so rarely with Harry. “I was just thinking about options for food.”

He smiles. “Right. Well, there’s a little known Indian place I happen to know about that does a  mean curry, or-”

“A curry sounds wonderful, actually.” She smiles up at him, getting lost in his eyes for a moment. What is it about this man? Why is he so attractive when she _knows_ that loving him can only lead to heartbreak? Everything about him has convinced her that he’s not the type of man who’s looking for commitment and, without that, there is no future with him. She’s so tired of this pattern. When will she fall in love with someone who’s in it for the long-haul? When will she finally fall for a man who won’t leave her, like her father?


End file.
